


Venture Out Of Boredom

by izanyas



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Hyacinthe Faure's Very Bad Not Good Days, Multi, OC-centric, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Trans Characters, now with plot, the secrets of Vongola past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8898331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izanyas/pseuds/izanyas
Summary: Hyacinthe Faure is many things. Lazy, ill-tempered, rude, greedy. A criminal by association. A decent lay. A heavy smoker. His one friend is only slightly better if you disregard their body count. He takes his job to heart, though, so when Reborn steals a century-old thesis about Japan's monstrous sea life, Hyacinthe goes after him. He's not Vongola's head archivist entirely for nothing.He really should've looked at the fine print on that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> On Thursday I thought "lol what if I wrote a tiny thing about me as an OC inserted into the KHR world" and now we're here 12k words later.  
> Largely inspired by [wyrvel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrvel/pseuds/Wyrvel)'s presence in my life. Here's my take on the good old self-insert fic.
> 
> If you're interested in Hyacinthe I wrote a short character sheet [here](http://kuonyahiro.tumblr.com/post/154523713525/adriens-first-self-insert-oc) \+ **EDIT** : [VARSHA DREW HYACINTHE AND MAMMON I'M DYING](https://twitter.com/ectology/status/810777821106831360)
> 
> This is rated T, but there's a few hints of sexual stuff (in a humorous way).

**Venture Out Of Boredom**

File #2B104CZ is missing.

Hyacinthe spends a good ten minutes staring fixedly at the spot where file #2B104CZ should be, but isn't, before deciding that it's time for a break anyway. His only coworker is neck-deep into her own pile of files and letters—tomorrow's letters, even, while Hyacinthe is stuck contemplating the pile from yesterday morning that he hasn't had the energy to get started on yet—so he lets himself out without a word. Outside the weather is especially bad, which is never enjoyable, and his throat has that scratch of pre-ache that tells him he really shouldn't be smoking two cigarettes in a row right now.

Hyacinthe smokes two cigarettes in a row.

Every intake of air burns and makes him want to end it, but he still swears in disappointment when a fat drop of rain lands on the paper of his second smoke and suffuses that disgusting wet-tobacco taste onto his tongue. When he's done he crawls back to the archive room reluctantly, shoulder pressed against the wall. His coworker doesn't look up.

She's been here for two months, but he still can't remember her name. Therefore, he's decided that he will avoid any and all interaction with her until he manages to glance at her stamps or at the name of the session she uses on her computer without looking like a creep.

Hyacinthe takes a good fifteen minutes after sitting back at his desk to remember that file #2B104CZ is missing. When he does, he pats the pile of papers on the table in front of him and hopes that #2B104CZ will miraculously fall out. It doesn't, so he groans, and gets started on tidying up three weeks' worth of mess.

An hour later he feels a lot more anxious than accomplished, as #2B104CZ is nowhere to be found. He stares at the top of his coworker's head that he can see just above the pile of folders she has on the side of her own desk. He _thinks_ her name is Lisa, but it might also be Elise or Sandra for all he can remember. Just because she looks like a Lisa doesn't mean she is one.

"Lisa," he whispers.

She doesn't move, of course, because she didn't hear him, or maybe because she thinks it's ridiculous, that he's whispering her name when they are in an empty room together and he could perfectly just say it out loud. The Vongola archives look like what Hyacinthe imagined the Hogwarts library did when he was a kid, but it isn't a library—they can be loud. They could scream if they wanted to. Hyacinthe didn't have a problem being loud with his previous coworker, but then the fool had to be found out as a spy and probably tortured and killed, and now he has to undergo the mandatory six months of awkwardness before he can hope to achieve the same comfort around maybe-Lisa.

Somewhat fired up, Hyacinthe clears his throat and says, "Lisa," again, but too loudly this time. For a wild second his heart drops to the bottom of his stomach and congeals here, but then maybe-Lisa lifts her head to look at him and replies, "Yes?"

 _Thank God_. "Hey, sorry to bother you… do you know where #2B104CZ is?" he asks.

"Oh," Lisa says. "Give me a second." She fiddles with her neat piles for a moment, her polished nails scratching the paper and making shivers creep up Hyacinthe's spine. She looks vaguely apologetic when she turns back to him. "Did you check on the shelf already?" she asks, embarrassed, and it doesn't take a genius to know that she's embarrassed for him.

 _What the fuck do you_ think, Hyacinthe thinks. "Yeah," he says. "It's just gone."

He sees her look at his desk in a way she probably thinks is subtle but makes him feel more like he should gear up for a screaming match. Thankfully, she keeps her mouth shut when she notices that he did tidy everything up.

"Well, that's a problem," she says at last. "When did you take it out last?"

"I didn't," Hyacinthe replies.

Lisa looks like her eyes are about to blow out of her head. It's a little funny. _"What?"_

"I didn't," Hyacinthe repeats. "Never touched the damn thing in my life."

"I don't mean to be rude," Lisa says with the air of someone who means to be rude, "but have you considered the possibility that you might have taken it out and forgotten?"

Hyacinthe really wants to ask her if she's considered the possibility of minding her own business and to remind her that he, who has worked here for three years as opposed to her two months, knows the place better than she does. "It's a nineteenth century academic research on Japan's most toxic sea life that Quinto's Sun Guardian completed over the course of six years," he says. At least he thinks it is. That one might be #2B104CA. "So not only is it absolutely unforgettable, it's also really fucking big."

She throws him a look that says, _if you can remember that, how come you can never find anything on your own?_ But Hyacinthe is pretty sure he's reaching the limits of how nice he really wants to be, and he's hungry now, and his throat hurts from talking.

"I'm off to eat," he declares. "Gonna bring that up with Mammon on my way, see if they can find it for me."

He's satisfied to see her pale a little at his words.

Going to the Varia house is a one kilometer trek and an entire hill to walk down from, plus another one to climb. Hyacinthe spends five of the twenty minutes the walks usually takes him looking longingly at the cars parked in the courtyard and regretting his inability to drive. He needs the physical activity anyway, he thinks.

He starts hating himself as soon as the road starts going upward, as usual. Mammon is waiting for him at the entrance of the house—they call it a manor, but it's a fourth of the size of Vongola's and Hyacinthe will not call archives run by a sixty year-old dick and which can fit into less than twenty square meters worthy of a manor—and though Hyacinthe can't see their eyes under their hood he can hear them snicker at him.

"You're late," Mammon says.

"I walk slow. Hard time breathing." He's panting as he says it, and he knows his entire face is red from the effort.

Mammon shrugs. "Stop smoking, then."

Hyacinthe resists the urge to flip them off.

Varia house would be pretty if it wasn't constantly being repaired. Or built. Hyacinthe isn't sure the place was ever finished building at all. The façade looks the elegant kind of gothic from what he can glimpse between the ladders and platforms and plastic coverings and dust. Inside is a bit better overall, because the destroyed parts are closed to the public, and because the current Varia team has an understanding of sorts. They only go all-out far from their living spaces. Mammon won't tell Hyacinthe what happened to make this necessary unless he pays for it, though.

"I need you to locate something for me," Hyacinthe says as soon as Mammon is sat on the kitchen counter of their room.

"Did you lose something again?"

"I _didn't_." Now that he can breathe more normally he has energy to spare for irritation, so he does. "I think someone stole it."

Mammon's face looks even more bored that it usually is. Their mouth is down-turned, now, even. "I didn't think there was anything worth stealing in there."

"You're awfully ignorant for someone who deals in everything," Hyacinthe replies.

There's a ton worth stealing in the Vongola archives, for rival families but also for the general public, as well as a few million euros' worth of "lost" art stored into big rooms and attended to by a team of specialists. Hyacinthe doesn't really like specialists. He'll let them in as long as they keep Monet's Charing Cross Bridge in top condition, though.

It's probably a good idea to keep Mammon in the dark about the art works.

"I didn't think this would get stolen, of all things, " Hyacinthe has to admit.

"What is it?"

"An old university thesis on Japanese sea life."

"Why do we even _have_ that?" Mammon groans.

"It was written by Quinto's Sun Gardian," Hyacinthe says. "It's been on my to-read list forever."

"The entire bloody archive is on your to-read list."

Hyacinthe doesn't answer, because that's true.

He stands up to make coffee in good part because he wants to be on Mammon's good side for the day so as to reduce the cost of his request as much as he can. Mammon doesn't comment on it, but their pinky finger strokes along the scales on Fantasma's belly as if to quiet the animal. When they're sitting like this it's more evident how much Hyacinthe towers over them in height and weight despite how straight their back is. Hyacinthe can hunch and try to disappear all he wants, but he's still a big guy.

"So," he says conversationally. "Will you do it?"

"Make me cake and I'll consider it," Mammon replies, so Hyacinthe does.

He ends up making way more food than is strictly necessary, because ten minutes in Belphegor walks in and asks to be fed. Hyacinthe doesn't think Belphegor knows who he is or realizes that he's not the cook, despite his weekly visits to Mammon. He and Mammon start sending rapid-fire insults at each other behind his back, and Hyacinthe wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"I have work," Mammon growls after a while, and Fantasma is on their head now and opening his mouth wide so his sharp little gleam in the low light. "If you make me lose more of time I'll start making you reimburse me for it in full, Bel."

"You're so _boring_ ," Belphegor laments.

Hyacinthe slides a plate his way and tries not to be seen. Thankfully, the boy-prince grabs it and leaves as if he hasn't noticed the man was there at all.

"Now," Mammon says. They have one hand around the scorching heat of their mug and the other getting Fantasma down from their head. "I'll do it, for three hundred euros."

Hyacinthe does some quick math in his head. This will put a dent into the money he religiously hoards every month on a third illegal bank account and never ever touches, but he can live with it. He'll buy less food next month. "Deal."

"Give me some paper," Mammon orders, and Hyacinthe does, because one thing he learned about working with archives is that he always needs to have memos on him all the time. Mammon folds the page in two and holds it in front of their face like an open book. "A thesis on Japanese sea life written by Quinto's Sun, you said."

"Just file #2B104CZ, if you can't remember it all," Hyacinthe adds with a smile.

"You're the least helpful person I know," Mammon replies. "All right."

Hyacinthe looks away when they do their thing, because it's disgusting and because Fastasma is running around in circles chasing his tail now, and it's a little cute. There's a bright light coming from Mammon while they focus that washes the entire room of color and brings tears to his eyes. Then the unfortunate sound of sneezing, and a silence, before Mammon swears loudly enough to make Fantasma jump.

"What's wrong?" Hyacinthe asks immediately, looking to where the paper is glowing bright with a weird symbol on it.

"It's in Japan," Mammon replies.

"In _Japan_?"

But Mammon doesn't answer. Their hood has fallen back, and their beast-like green eyes are fixed on the symbol that keeps flickering its yellow light on and off.

Every time Hyacinthe has seen Mammon use their locating power, the paper they are holding fills itself with the sharp lines of a map of sorts—or, if Mammon is more inclined, actual written instructions. But there's nothing here but the glowing symbol that looks weirdly like a child's toy.

"So what does this mean?" Hyacinthe says. "Someone broke into the archive and stole a century-old paper on Japanese sea life just so they could bring it with them there and, what? Fish for toxic crustacean?" It says a lot about the years he's spent at the manor that it doesn't sound that far-fetched. "They could've just asked."

"Not this guy," Mammon says. "I don't know where it is exactly, but I know who took it—and this person is in Japan currently."

Hyacinthe waits. Mammon tugs their hood down over their eyes again and gathers Fantasma against their side with a broad swipe of their hand. The creature hisses a little.

"So who is it?" he asks when the silence becomes frankly ridiculous.

"Reborn."

Hyacinthe doesn't know anyone by that name. "Who?"

"Are you for real?" Mammon replies in a flat voice. "Is this a French thing, being this clueless?"

"What French thing?" Hyacinthe parrots in the worst French accent he can bring himself to recreate, and it's with immense satisfaction that he watches Mammon groan and flex their hands as if readying them to strike. "I'm serious, though. I don't know anyone named Reborn."

"Then read your damn archives," Mammon says. "There has to be at least ten folders to his name in there."

There's more to their tone than the usual lack of enthusiasm. For once Hyacinthe doesn't push the topic and resolves to look into it on his own. He fishes a pen out of his backpack and writes REBORN on his left hand in blocky letters, and Mammon sneers at the sight but doesn't say another word.

As it turns out, there is only one file specifically titled REBORN. Hyacinthe does the database search the minute he's back at the archive, after another kilometer-long walk that Mammon refused to drive for him. The weird thing is that the file itself a very old one with very recent updates and that apparently these updates are the special kind that don't go by Hyacinthe himself but directly from the topmost officiers at Vongola, including the Ninth himself, who has direct and protected access to it. Hyacinthe vaguely wonders if it's any kind of regular that he can access the file at all, and indeed he cannot read any of its content, just see the title and the number.

He finds the physical copy of it with little hope. The thing is sealed with Flames and bears Vongola's crest with an IX on it made of glinting crimson wax. Hyacinthe isn't afraid of his boss, but he doesn't especially want to die either, so he doesn't try to touch it.

"Where is it, then?" Lisa asks when she sees him fall back into his chair. The thing cracks loudly in the silence.

"Japan," Hyacinthe answers.

"Japan," she repeats, and he can see her eyes glaze over in disappointment but not surprise.

Yeah. He agrees.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and speed-dials Mammon, and he touches his hair with his hand briefly, tugging hard on the little strands at his forehead that he needs to shorten. _"What is it now?"_ Mammon answers with irritation on their voice. Hyacinthe smiles. They picked up after barely five seconds of ringing.

"If you're not busy, can you locate that Reborn person a little more precisely for me?"

There are loud noises cracking in the static, and what sounds like Varia's second-in-command Superbi Squalo's voice screaming hard enough to tear his voice apart. _"I'm busy, Cen,"_ Mammon replies predictably. _"And you only paid me for one locating."_

"Which you failed, by the way."

 _"You're a century too young to try to manipulate me."_ They don't seem too angry despite the sound of things blowing up. They groan, satisfied, a few seconds later, after one blast of noise nearly punches Hyacinthe's ear clean off. _"Hold that thought."_

Everything after that is muffled, as if Mammon has put their hand on the receiver, so Hyacinthe leans back in his chair and stretches his shoulders until they crack loudly. Lisa makes a face at him.

 _"Okay,"_ Mammon says. The explosion noises have disappeared in favor of just Squalo's screaming, so Hyacinthe gathers that whoever was fighting has now stopped. _"Fine, I'll locate the bastard."_

"Thanks, darling."

_"Stop being disgusting."_

They sneeze loudly a second later, and Hyacinthe shudders hard enough to kick his left foot right into the bottom drawer of his desk. He presses down on his toes with his free palm and tries not to let the tears gathering in his eyes from the pain roll down his face.

 _"I have him,"_ Mammon declares, a little proud. _"I'll text you his current coordinates. Don't forget the money for earlier."_

"I never forget money," Hyacinthe says before hanging up.

The man named Reborn is located in a small Japanese town called Namimori, according to Mammon. Hyacinthe looks at their text a grand total of thirty times during what's left of the afternoon, and by the time Lisa is leaving for her car outside it has finally started raining.

The room is dark, but Hyacinthe doesn't turn on more than his desktop lamp. It's early fall now, and with the clouds hiding it from all light Tuscany looks grey more than orange. Hyacinthe's throat aches less with the coffee he's drunk and the candy-like meds he pops too often into his mouth, and he hasn't smoked in hours now, which doesn't hurt. He likes the rain anyway. It never rains enough here compared to his hometown where the drizzle is daily.

Hyacinthe doesn't know what he should do about #2B104CZ. He could get away with not mentioning it at all, because no one in this place cares enough to monitor the archives the way he does. He has the magic key that opens and close all the doors, and if his Flame control is weak at least he can use it at all, which isn't the case for most people. It took three weeks of training under Sawada's watchful eye to manage to produce one lick of blue between his thumb and index—just enough to use the key at all.

Technically, no one here has control over the archives. No one except Hyacinthe.

So he could just not report #2B104CZ's disappearance. It's not like #2B104CZ is of any importance; it's a simple relic of Quinto's years, something sentimental. As far as Hyacinthe knows the thesis never got published in the first place. It's not like anyone would miss it.

The fact that someone took it is what bothers Hyacinthe at all, because this is _his_ archive room, and those are _his_ keys, and no one sets a foot here without _his_ permission. Nono himself always goes through Hyacinthe when he needs something from the archives, even though he can access it without the key, because he knows whose territory this is.

And Hyacinthe is nothing if not territorial.

Plus, there's something about spending four and a half years in college getting drilled about source material that just won't let him lose a manuscript like that. No matter how ridiculous or outdated.

Hyacinthe gathers his things and leaves the room. He pours Flame into the key and locks the door behind him, and then he puts the key back around his neck and under his hoodie.

"I need someone to go to Japan," he tells Nono's Mist when he arrives at the man's office.

Nono's Mist is always very polite to Hyacinthe. He calls him "Faure" and isn't affectionate in the least, but his voice is soft and his words are good and he treats Hyacinthe like a respected employee no matter what.

Hyacinthe will never call him by name because _Bouche_ and _Croquant_ are beyond his ability to use as words meant to designate another human being, but he does appreciate the man.

Nono's Mist pushes his glasses up his nose to look at him. He has what looks like the blueprints of a factory spread over his desk, and his assistant, a scrawny man with early-greying hair, is looking at Hyacinthe in disapproval.

"What do you need to go to Japan for?" Nono's Mist questions.

" _I_ don't need to. But someone broke into the archives and took one of the files with them to Japan."

The Mist Guardian doesn't look surprised, though his assistant lets out a small squeak of a noise, like a hurt mouse. He's red in the face when Hyacinthe glances at him.

"Do you know who did?" Nono's Mist asks.

"Yeah. Some guy named Reborn."

"Faure," the Guardian says, and there's something on his voice a little heavier than Hyacinthe has ever heard before, which makes his thumbs rubs against the sides of his indexes nervously. "Are you sure about this?"

"Got the info from Mammon," Hyacinthe says. He swallows past the ache in his throat. "Why?"

"Do you seriously not know who Reborn is?" Mist's stuck-up assistant says in his stuck-up-assistant voice. "What ever are you doing in this Family?"

And Hyacinthe has resisted giving Lisa the finger and resisted flipping Mammon off, but he doesn't care enough about this guy to try. So he slaps his right hand into the crook of his left elbow and raises his left forearm, fist closed.

The assistant goes crimson with indignation; for a second Hyacinthe sees his free hand twitch in the direction of what is probably an armpit holster. But Nono's Mist grasps the man's shoulder firmly and laughs, brief and booming.

But then—"Let me take you to the Boss," he says, and Hyacinthe doesn't understand at first, not until he looks away from the assistant's burned-red cheeks and to the glint in Croquant's eyes.

"No," he says.

"That was an order," the Mist replies easily.

Hyacinthe clamps his mouth shut.

He doesn't sink so low as to need to be steered there. He follows the Guardian's steps from corridor to corridor and watches with unseeing eyes as the man unlocks door after door and bypasses security it would take Hyacinthe weeks to get authorized past. Not that he _wants_ to get past it.

Hyacinthe has met Vongola Nono face-to-face a grand total of five times over the years. The first and most memorable was when he got taken—dragged—hired, and because Nono's Mist had offered to house him directly on the estate, against a slightly less outrageous salary, of course. So Hyacinthe had to meet the Boss in person and sign a working and living contract with him directly.

There hadn't really been a question. Hyacinthe didn't even speak Italian at the time, though he understood it well enough when spoken slowly, so he wasn't looking forward to having to find a place to live on his own. He had taken the offer and lived in the manor since.

The problem was that Hyacinthe had been emotionally dead from anxiety the first time he laid eyes on whom he had recently learned was the biggest mob boss in Europe and his new employer, and so he had said whatever went by his unfortunately low-inhibited mind. Including the fact that, no, this wasn't his first visit to Italy, and that he actually had family here.

The Ninth had _loved_ it.

Hyacinthe feels dread swallow up his insides as the Mist Guardian knocks on the Boss's office door. A quiet _come in_ filters out through the expensive wood panel.

The Ninth Vongola boss looks like a Vermeer if Vermeer could paint human emotion. He's shrouded in light, sitting at his desk and his back turned to the wide windows that must bathe the entire room with gold sunlight when the summer is high, and he has one hand holding a diamond-studded fountain pen and the other resting on the paper he is busy with. His old face wrinkles with joy when he meets Hyacinthe's eyes.

"Now this is rare," he declares, poised and warm, and Hyacinthe feels something small and unnamed shrivel up inside him. "What brings you here, my boy?"

"Faure has some interesting news," the Mist says, cutting right to the chase. Bless him. "About Reborn."

Nono's face doesn't betray anything that Hyacinthe can see. The old man drops the thousand-euro trinket he's holding into a ridiculously bright red leather case and leans back in his equally outrageous seat. "Does he," he prompts.

Croquant gives a brief pat to the space between Hyacinthe's shoulder blades, and Hyacinthe jumps out of his skin.

"Uh," he says.

Neither of his two superiors look like they want to make this easy. Hyacinthe swallows painfully against his aching throat.

Then he remembers why he's here, and that he has technically done nothing to deserve feeling this goddamn anxious over.

"This Reborn guy stole file #2B104CZ from the archives." It's more simple to speak than to stay silent and mortified, he finds. "From _my_ archives."

The Guardian snorts lightly.

"What is this file?" Nono asks. He doesn't seemed phased, but then again, if he were phased by something as trivial as stolen property he wouldn't be here, Hyacinthe thinks.

"An old manuscript from Quinto's time. He took it to Japan, apparently."

Nono does seem to tense a tiny amount at that. He looks over Hyacinthe's head to his Guardian with something complicated on his face that Hyacinthe thinks better than to try and decipher, and then he looks back down. "Still friends with the Varia, then."

"Just Mammon," Hyacinthe mutters.

"Have you told anyone else about this?"

Hyacinthe shakes his head. Well—he did tell Lisa, but Lisa doesn't know who took it, just where it went.

"If Mammon knows, Xanxus knows," Croquant says flatly.

Nono frowns, and his eyes look pained.

The silence that follows is every kind of heavy at once. Hyacinthe's life is littered with discomfort, so it's not the _worst_ thing he's ever stood through, but he would still rather not be there at all to experience it. He looks out to the burned out color of the foliage and the crisp veins and heurts where every tree's trunk has suffered bullets and what looks like knife wounds. The windows must be a sort of Vongola-special foolproof glass, for the Ninth to turn his back to them so serenely.

"Reborn is currently on a very important and very secret mission," Nono says at last. Hyacinthe looks back at him, but the man is staring at the back of his own hands spread flat over the desktop. "I would've preferred no one know his whereabouts."

Part of Hyacinthe wants to stay silent, part of him wants to inform Nono that Mammon is likely tracing Reborn already judging by their reaction earlier, and the rest of him is too busy being conflicted between the two to say anything.

"Mmh," he settles on.

"It is unfortunate that he chose to take something he didn't have the right to," Nono continues.

"Okay," Hyacinthe says.

"He should have gone through you, out of respect for your excellent work in the last few years."

"That is true."

"We've really never had a better archivist in our ranks." The Boss's eyes look like they're sparkling again, worryingly enough. "I can't thank God enough for bringing you to us."

"Thanks," Hyacinthe mumbles.

The Mist Guardian hums contentedly, and takes hold of Hyacinthe's shoulder once more.

"Say," and now even Nono's voice sounds sparkly, and the pit of dread in Hyacinthe's stomach opens up and grows, "how would you feel about a trip abroad, my boy?"

"You mean to France?" Hyacinthe asks hopelessly.

Nono chuckles and says, "No," like a death sentence.

Hyacinthe tells himself he should consider his options; but the truth is and will always be that he doesn't fear his Boss and that he knows, intellectually, that Nono has a soft spot for him. So he says: "I'm not going to fucking Japan."

"Faure," Croquant growls.

"Don't 'Faure' me," Hyacinthe snaps back. "I don't even speak Japanese! Just send someone else to fetch the damn thing, or wait for that Reborn guy to bring it back, or just _email_ him—I'm _not_ traveling halfway across the world for a century-old, outdated manuscript."

"Is this how you treat my ancestors' legacy?" Nono pleads. He's very convincing as a benevolent grandfather.

"I shit on your ancestors," Hyacinthe replies in French.

His heart freezes over in fear after that, because he didn't mean it literally, he _didn't_ , but who fucking knows how Italians are gonna take it—but all Nono does is laugh, and even though the Mist Guardian's grip on Hyacinthe's shoulder has become painful he doesn't make a move to murder him on the spot.

"I think the trip would do you a world of good," Nono says once he's done laughing. "Make you get out of your comfort zone a little more."

"I am constantly in my discomfort zone," Hyacinthe protests.

"When's the last time you went out, then?"

Hyacinthe is about to answer angrily when he realizes that he doesn't exactly know—and that it's no one's business but his, anyway.

Nono smiles gently. "You haven't made any connections besides Mammon since you got here," he says. "You meet with them once or twice a week for a couple hours, and you go into town for groceries and other necessities every ten days or so. Every six months, you take three weeks of holiday and fly back to France to visit your parents. How's Rouen?"

This is, Hyacinthe thinks faintly, the reason why Nono is considered such a fearsome Capofamiglia. "Rainy," he replies, crossing his arms over his chest. He's starting to sweat under the thick rose-print hoodie he's wearing.

"I can understand how complicated the language barrier made things at first, but you overcame that quickly enough. You were pretty much fluent after half a year. But you didn't seek any relationships, not even work ones."

"My lack of a social circle is none of your business."

"Indeed," Nono continues, still smiling. "But you're a smart and handsome young man, ruining his best years away in a dusty room that sees little enough light to be called a basement."

And, well, there's nothing Hyacinthe can say to that. He _has_ been petitioning Croquant for years to open windows in the walls of the archives after all.

"I still can't speak Japanese," he says after a while. "I'm the worst person you could send there. I don't even know what Reborn looks like, or who he is, or what kind of job he's doing that is so secret and important."

"He's tutoring the future Decimo," Nono answers.

Hyacinthe chokes on his inhale and coughs grossly. His vision is swarming with grey spots by the time he regains his breath, and for a while longer the light from outside looks more green than white.

"You—"

"I won't give you more information than this," Nono cuts in. He's not smiling anymore. "This is already more than anyone who isn't me, my advisor, or my Guardians, knows. And I hereby forbid you from breathing a word of it."

Hyacinthe breathes out slowly. His heart is beating off-tempo, and his face is burning, still, from the rush of exhilarated daring earlier. "Yes, sir."

Nono's lips curl indulgently. "I want you to go to Japan and bring back what Reborn stole."

"But—"

"This is also an order."

Hyacinthe shuts his mouth. His ears are ringing.

"Please understand that I'm not doing this to punish you, Hyacinthe," Nono adds gently.

 _It feels like it_ , Hyacinthe thinks. "Of course, sir," he replies.

"Cheer up," the Mist Guardian orders beside him. "Japan is a beautiful country, and the entire trip will be paid for. You won't even have to worry about housing or tracking Reborn down, since we know exactly where he is."

"To thank you, I'm willing to make a few concessions upon your return," the Ninth says. "Bouche tells me you've been requesting some construction work in the archives?"

Hyacinthe nods faintly. He's not listening anymore, not really—his mind is stuck far ahead onto the flight he's going to have to book himself and the hotel he will have to sleep in when he's waiting in Rome and what he's going to do when he lands in Japan proper, because he's never heard of a place called Namimori and with his luck it's going to be so far from any sort of big city that he's going to have to _walk_ there.

He's doing this, isn't he. He's going to Japan to fetch some old papers.

And his university professors thought he didn't have the soul for the work.

"Get me some cheese that isn't dry as the fucking desert when I come back," he says, with the voice of a man ready for the gallows.

"I can do that," Vongola Nono assures him.

 

* * *

 

It's easy enough to convince Mammon to take a day off and drive Hyacinthe to Rome. They stop in Florence to eat lunch, which Hyacinthe pays, and then it's a three-hour drive in Mammon's neat but old car which doesn't even have the decency of having a CD player. Thirty minutes into soapy Italian pop music Hyacinthe decides that he prefers world news to music at all. Mammon groans but doesn't stop him.

"You elitist," they just say.

Hyacinthe is familiar with the landscapes unfolding through the windows. He has traveled to Rome several times, by train or in the same car with Mammon in the driver's seat, and though he adores central Italy fiercely he finds that he doesn't really have it in him to marvel this time. The hills are beautiful, the sun is out, and the first hour of the trip is littered with silver olive trees gleaming like fish's scales. He still can't think about anything other than the fact that he's about to jump straight into the unknown.

"What sort of person is Reborn?" he asks, because Nono was kind enough to pay for the trip but not give him a single picture, or any sort of information at all.

"I don't want to talk about him," Mammon answers.

"What did he do to you, then?" But there's only silence beside him. When he turns his head to stare at his friend Mammon is entirely focused on the road in front of them. "Oh, come on. Give me something."

"It blows my goddamn mind that you've been a mafioso for _three years_ and haven't heard of Reborn before," Mammon shoots back.

Hyacinthe scowls. "I'm not a mafioso."

"Denial looks ugly on you."

"Fine," Hyacinthe retorts. "Don't tell me anything. Let me just cross two continents to find a man whose full name and appearance I don't know in a country I've never visited before and whose language I can't speak."

"Your English is fine," Mammon says, absolutely bored. "You'll be okay."

Hyacinthe knows that. It doesn't stop the anxiety from eating him alive every second that goes by. Mammon shoots him a glance, and the curve of their mouth goes a little softer.

"Reborn is the best hitman in the business," they say after a moment. "He's technically unattached to any Family, but his loyalty to Vongola is the mafia's worst-kept secret."

"He's _not_ part of the Family?" Mammon shakes his head. "Not even the CEDEF?"

"God, no. He and Sawada can't stand each other."

Hyacinthe doesn't have an opinion on Iemitsu Sawada one way or the other. He distinctly remembers calling the man a mean-spirited asshole after meeting him, because Sawada had ordered him around without a _thank you_ or _please_ when he was training to use his Flame, but truly, he barely got to talk to him at all. "Huh," he says.

It doesn't make a lot of sense for the Ninth to have an outsider watch over the future Decimo, though, does it?

"So how do _you_ know Reborn?" Hyacinthe asks.

"Everyone knows Reborn," Mammon answers.

"You know him, though. Personally."

Fantasma is curled asleep on Mammon's shoulder. Mammon raises a hand at Hyacinthe's words and presses their fingers to the creature's scales and to the tip of his triangle-shaped face so Fantasma can lick the pad of their index. "He and I are part of the same group," they say. "I try to avoid all of them as much as I can."

Hyacinthe waits, but Mammon doesn't offer anything more.

The rest of the ride is pretty silent after that. The landscape has become less rounded and the weather less damp, and there are more cars on the roads alongside theirs, all heading toward the capital. Mammon has promised to drop Hyacinthe at the gates of the city, but they drive all the way to his hotel instead. Their reasons become apparent once they park in front of it.

"I'm hungry," they declare, "and I know you got one of those special credit cards for the trip, so let's use it."

Hyacinthe does, in fact, have one of those credit cards. It's a black thing pressed with the Vongola crest and lined in gold, and it doesn't have a number—just a code that Hyacinthe is not allowed to write down anywhere.

He had to build an entire new part of his brain to memorize it.

Hyacinthe picked the hotel based on food reviews rather than comfort and facilities. The place looks nice enough, minimalistic but not cheap, with no dusty corners in sight. The food, when it comes, smells delicious.

"How long is the trip going to take you?" Mammon asks. A waitress is eyeing their lowered hood like it personally insulted her—she fumbled between _sir_ and _ma'am_ while taking their orders, too, for the both of them. Mammon is ignoring her, but they're smiling a little nastily.

"Well, if I make it out alive, probably not more than a few days. I hope." Hyacinthe hadn't exactly counted on his target being a top class hitman, but it's a bit soothing to think about.

"Look alive," Mammon mutters. "Well, don't count on me to pick you up when you're back. I'm going to be very busy for the next few months."

"What do you mean?"

Mammon lifts their head. Even in the shadow of their hood their eyes are striking, electric, and with the strength of greed in them they make Hyacinthe swallow reflexively.

"You'll see," they murmur.

 

* * *

 

Hyacinthe had been rotting away in Rouen when the mafia found him. He spent every day with depression gripping his guts and every night wide-eyed and hapless, and the relationship he was in at the time was sucking what was left of his self-esteem and leaving him in a state of constant emptiness. He was barely hanging on to his studies and all his friends had left for Paris years ago and never looked back. He was doing so bad for his internship at the musée des Beaux-Arts that every one of his superiors and colleagues disliked him without having the energy to actually fire him.

Then one day, a man had walked in, looking tired and irritated, and started asking him questions about Caravaggio's Christ at the Column.

Hyacinthe hated the Caravaggio.

It was by far the most respected piece in the entire European baroque collection, but it was so damn ugly, like everything baroque and European, and Hyacinthe had been so very tired. He thought the dark-skinned man in the expensive suit and shoes with scars on his face who looked as angry as he felt might appreciate it more if he were honest about it, so he was, with no shortage of expletives for how fucking disgusting he thought the Caravaggio looked.

The man liked it so much that he offered Hyacinthe a job.

It was in Italy. It was for the mafia. The man had tried to introduce himself as _croquembouche_. Everything about it was fishy, and especially how rich the guy looked and how he had taken one look at Hyacinthe and brought up transition benefits—as if Hyacinthe's year-long process of ripping his own gender to shreds was visible on his face. Because apparently, the Italian mafia doesn't care if you're trans as long as you can follow omertà.

All in all, it took Hyacinthe two days to break up with his girlfriend and drop out of college. Bouche Croquant, to whom Hyacinthe immediately refused to ever refer as Bouche or Croquant for the sake of his own mental health, waited for him in the city until he made up his mind, and was pleasantly surprised to see him arrive at his hotel with his luggage packed and his mind clear.

Hyacinthe had worked for Vongola ever since as keeper of the Family's numerous archives, under the direct jurisdiction of the Ninth's Mist Guardian.

 

* * *

 

Hyacinthe lands at Narita international airport at four in the morning local time. He made the absolute mistake of not sleeping during the flight, because this was his first time flying for so long, and because there were a bunch of movies on the plane that he has been dying to watch for a while without ever finding the energy to. He's exhausted on top of being thousands of kilometers away from home, which thankfully sucks away his anxiety enough that he can book himself a train ticket to Namimori.

He has four hours before his train leaves. He spends them filling his stomach with coffee at Starbucks and smoking a grand total of six cigarettes, and by the time the reaches his quay the train itself is shrieking into a stop and he feels like his entire body is vibrating.

He doesn't know how he manages to nap on the train. It's very comfortable, so maybe that's the reason. He wakes up jittery and with a headache, but he feels less like a dead body overall.

And then he's there. Namimori.

The last twenty hours feel more like a dream than an actual day in his life. Hyacinthe thinks about it as he looks at the clear fall sky and the bare trees around the entrance to the train station. There are people milling around, but nothing like the crowds at Narita, and the station employee he asks for directions after five entire minutes of baring his teeth at his own social phobia is nice enough to give them to him in English. The thought that he was still in Florence twenty-four hours earlier doesn't feel real.

He still hates this entire assignment, but the the knowledge that he can't go back now makes him feel a tad more secure. All that's left is finding the world's best hitman and asking him to give back the nineteenth century biology manuscript he stole for no apparent reason.

Hyacinthe books a room at the hotel nearest to the train station. The clerk is skeptical at the sight of the sleek Vongola credit card that he uses to pay upfront for a week, but his forehead smoothes over when the payment goes in without a hitch, and his smile and polite bows become more enthusiastic. Hyacinthe climbs the stairs to the second floor where the room is and proceeds to fall onto the bed and pass out for six hours.

He wakes up at nightfall because his phone is buzzing frantically. He groans, rubs his knuckles into his eyes to get rid of the crust of sleep there, and clears his throat before opening the video call.

"Hey," his dad says brightly. "You arrive in Japan all right?"

Hyacinthe blinks and squints at the screen. It must be morning still in France, but the light is dim, which probably means that it's another rainy day in Normandy. "Yeah," he answers at last. "Haven't seen much of it yet, though."

"You should do some sightseeing."

"Fuck no."

"Stop swearing," his mom interjects. Hyacinthe can only see a quarter of her face in his screen, because his dad is holding the camera and hasn't yet grasped the concept of horizontal filming.

"I'm here for work anyway," he says tiredly. He glances at the window; what little he can see of the sky is more navy than orange already, with tiny pricks of light from emerging stars. "This town is kinda in the middle of nowhere, I don't know if there's much to see."

"You're not in Tokyo?"

Hyacinthe shakes his head. "Nah. I have to meet someone here. Maybe I can spend a couple days in the capital before I go back."

"That would be nice," his mom says. "Bring me something back if you do."

"Want a miniature version of the tower?" Hyacinthe says with a smile. "I think I'm mostly gonna buy myself some language textbooks. Might as well try to learn something."

"That's my girl."

Hyacinthe doesn't bother correcting her. The silence stretches, a bit uncomfortable, but it might just be the ache in his back from sleeping on his front like an idiot. "How's Rouen?" he asks after a moment.

"Wet," his dad answers immediately. He directs the camera to the wide living-room window, and though the image is too bad to make out details, the street outside looks like a drizzle is going on. "We reached a miracle heat maximum of twenty-eight degrees celsius this summer, though, so we're not too upset about it."

Hyacinthe chuckles. "That's cool. I think I'm gonna come back for Christmas and the New Year, so hopefully I'll get to experience the cold and damp for myself. Mediterranean weather does get boring after a while."

"Oh, shut up."

Hyacinthe's parents spend another few minutes small-talking about his wondrous two and a half siblings, then they show him the disgruntled face of the old family cat, then they hang up with many well-wishes. Hyacinthe drops his phone on the comforter and stretches until his spine cracks satisfyingly enough.

He feels energetic now. He calls room service for dinner and lazes in front of the TV for an hour or so. Every program is in Japanese, but he finds one dubbed in Japanese sign language and tries to follow it half-heartedly with what little he remembers of his FSL lessons. It's not much, he finds out. Another channel is doing a rerun of an anime he has never watched, and that keeps his attention for another twenty minutes, but eventually he has to admit that he's not going to be able to fall back asleep so soon.

"Shit," he murmurs.

Well. Japan is renowned for its low criminality, so taking a stroll at night should be safe enough.

Hyacinthe puts on his shoes and fishes a scarf out of his luggage, and he has a cigarette between his lips before he exists the lobby downstairs.

The air outside is crisp. It smells different than it does around the Vongola estate or in Florence where pollution and the river make it heavy, cleaner and colder despite the presence of the city around him. The streets are clean, too, no sign of garbage spilling into the gutters or rats running in darkened alleys. There are a few people out, and every bar and restaurant has its doors open to the sound of loud chatter and glass hitting wooden tables. Hyacinthe walks into a convenience store and comes out with a plastic bag full of the weirdest snacks he could find.

Soon enough the apartment buildings and work offices around the train station leave room for larger houses. It's quiet in this part of town, and Hyacinthe is alone. He can glimpse greenery above the fences along the road, painted yellow by the glow of street lamps. Every house looks lived-in, with bright windows and brighter curtains. It's peaceful. Part of him is worried about getting lost or walking too far, but he has a map of the city in his coat pocket and he's twenty-six, for God's sake. He's allowed to get lost if he wants to.

Then, of course, Hyacinthe trips on a step he hasn't seen and then slides on a puddle, and he falls backward.

His mind goes through the five stages of grief and anticipates the crushing pain of the blow on his ass and back when he lands, but he never lands.

Someone catches him like something out of an early Disney movie, one arm under his shoulders and another under the crook of his knees, _sweeping_ _him_ off his feet entirely. Hyacinthe isn't a light guy. He's taller than most people and heavier too, skin soft at his hips and thighs and big bones holding him upright. No one has lifted him at all in at least ten years, and certainly not like he's some skinny princess made out of blown glass.

He makes an unattractive sound from the surprise, halfway between a scream and a snort. After the shock dissipates there's only panic; fire through his veins and his heart beating too-fast like it's trying to break his own ribs and tear his skin and muscles open. It's the bad kind of surprised, the jumpscared kind, the one that leaves him in an out-of-body experience for hours afterward until something shocks his soul back into place or he just decides to sleep it off.

But then—"Everything okay?" says the sultriest voice he has ever heard, and it's in English, but with the imprint of Italian on it, the way people spoke to him when he first arrived in Florence, the way Nono speaks to him.

Hyacinthe looks up.

The man looks terribly good. Obviously.

"I'm fine," Hyacinthe rasps out. He's never been this thankful for how thoroughly testosterone has changed his original baby bird voice, because even with it, this was the opposite of manly.

He's set back up on his feet with careful hands and _powerful_ arms—and, okay, his face is beet red and his breath is knocked so far out of his lungs he doesn't think he knows how to breathe anymore—and he needs to stop thinking.

Deep breaths. He would fan himself with his hand if some remnant of self-esteem wasn't holding him back.

"Thanks," he says, in a strangled voice.

The stranger looks at him in silence. He's wearing a deep black suit and matching fedora, and it should be ridiculous, because Hyacinthe outgrew the fedora-wearing type in _high school_ , but it looks good on him. It looks the kind of masculine that Hyacinthe will never outgrow—or reach.

"I'm glad," the man says, and tips his fedora down over his eyes so that only his mouth and nose remain visible. It's theatrical and ridiculous, and Hyacinthe feels hot all over. "Well, I'll be on my way, then. Have a lovely evening."

Hyacinthe bites his own tongue trying to give an answer—but it doesn't matter anyway, because he blinks, and the man is gone.

He looks at the accursed puddle and step responsible for his fall. He takes his phone out of his pocket to check the time (ten in the evening), and shoves a cigarette between his teeth before going back the way he came.

And then reality hits him like a cold shower.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he growls, ripping the cigarette out of his mouth and throwing it an unsuspecting fence. The thing bounces and falls to the thus-far litter-free ground where no one will ever smoke it. "That was Reborn, wasn't it."

There's no one around to answer him. The Italian and the suit-fedora combination are enough to give it away, though.

If it was Reborn, then he's probably being watched. _Show your fucking face_ , he wants to yell, but it's already late and he doesn't want to disturb the peace of the people in the homes around him. Plus, he makes the mistake of remembering the face in question, and his eyes start to water as if he's trying to look at the sun itself.

So Hyacinthe goes back to the hotel, flustered and irate, and takes special care to keep his hands visible at his sides, middle fingers sticking out.

 

* * *

 

The following day is a Saturday. Hyacinthe awakens predictably late and confused around eleven in the morning to the sound of cars and birds from his open window. He doesn't remember leaving the window open and suffers his first daily bout of acute paranoia. The shower helps him clear his mind, and so does dressing up in clean jeans and a pressed sky-blue shirt.

He sends a quick text to Mammon to inform them that he's arrived, and the reply comes almost instantly. _Have you met Reborn yet?_

 _You didn't tell me he was hot,_ Hyacinthe says, because he can't get over that part.

 _If you sleep with him I will literally kill you_ , Mammon texts back.

Hyacinthe isn't sure how serious they are, but it doesn't matter. He's just here to make sure his archives stay as dusty, unused, and _complete_ as they always have been. He has no intention of sleeping with anyone.

There's a kitchenette with a microwave in his hotel room that he uses to heat some of the snacks he bought last night. He eats his way through a third of it before realizing that he's stopped feeling hungry and started feeling nervous instead, and then he locks the room behind him and leaves.

He has the address that Mammon sent him a week ago, and the one in the envelope Nono gave him, rich ink on rich paper and probably written with that ridiculous diamond pen. The addresses match, because Mammon's locating is always accurate, so Hyacinthe takes out his map of Namimori, thankfully written in both English and Japanese, and starts looking.

He has the attention span of a toddler, so this task alone takes him a good fifteen minutes. He finally locates the street he needs to find between five other tiny scribbled street names—it looks like a cul-de-sac more than a street, with houses and nothing else. Hyacinthe walks briskly, bowing his head a bit awkwardly when he meets someone else's eyes. Overall he doesn't seem to draw much attention despite how out-of-place he feels in a city that doesn't look like a very touristic spot.

He finds the place easily enough after thirty minutes of staring into alleyways. He's reasonably sure he's in the right street. The kanji on the plate at the crossroad a hundred meters back looked the same as the ones on his map, at least. So now it's only a matter of overcoming his burning shame before he starts feeling weird standing here for so long.

Hyacinthe crosses the distance between the sidewalk and the front door and rings.

He starts worrying that no one's home after about ten seconds, and shakes himself mentally, because ten seconds aren't enough to decide that. But the silence stretches to what feels like a full minute, and every window that he can see is closed, and no sound can be heard from inside the house.

Maybe the door is soundproof, though. Probably bulletproof too, if the future Decimo lives here.

Why would the future Decimo live in Japan, anyway?

A teenager with bleached hair and not enough commitment to dress fully goth materializes in front of Hyacinthe and screams at him in Italian, "Who the fuck are you?"

Hyacinthe breathes in as slowly as he can. He only barely managed to avoid jumping back and hitting his head on the side of the door.

"What do you want with the Tenth?" the kid continues, walking uncomfortably close, crowding Hyacinthe against the side of the door and taking—dynamite. He's taking dynamite sticks out of his jean pockets.

"I'm no one dangerous," Hyacinthe says tiredly.

"AS IF I'D BELIEVE THAT," goth kid bellows.

Hyacinthe doesn't own a weapon. He's never been this kind of mafioso and he never will be, and his crowning achievement in other superpowers consists in making a tiny blue Flame appear between his thumb and index, so he doesn't really have the necessary equipment to defend himself against an explosion.

Usually he wouldn't think of defending himself at all from a kid, but age doesn't count when the kid in question is armed.

"I'm really—listen, boy. Kid. I'm not here to do anything… nefarious."

"Which Family are you?" the kid replies. He shoves a cigarette between his lips and lights it with a match, of all things—how many hands does he have?—and _then_ he uses the cigarette to light the dynamite, but by now Hyacinthe is just trying not to cry from the smell, because he's smoking _rolled Gauloises_.

"I'm Vongola," he says anyway. "Please put out the dynamite."

The boy squints at him. "Can you prove it?"

"I will if you put out that goddamn dynamite!"

The boy snorts and throws the stick on the ground before stomping on it. It takes him a while, of course—he doesn't look like the type who often has to put out the explosives he apparently throws around.

Hyacinthe really doesn't want to think about why a teenager would have dynamite on his person in the first place. Nono's fucked-up mafia youth development program is none of his business.

"Thank God," he mutters. He kicks the stick into a bush for added safety.

"Now," the boy growls at Hyacinthe, walking further into his personal space as if that was possible. Hyacinthe can feel his back fuse with the door. "Who the fuck are you?"

"My name is Hyacinthe Faure," Hyacinthe replies. "Look, I'm just here to—"

"Gokudera?" another voice says.

Hyacinthe looks above the kid's head. There's another kid, now, a very tall boy with black hair and brown eyes and a baseball bat over his shoulder. His other arm is wrapped in a cast. Hyacinthe really hopes that he won't end up dead at the hands of two teenagers, because he doesn't think Mammon will ever forgive him if he does.

The one named Gokudera turns his back on Hyacinthe and engages the black-haired boy into what looks and sounds like an argument, except only Gokudera is screaming. The other kid has a hand on his bat and keeps looking between his friend and Hyacinthe himself with confusion on his face.

"Let's just wait for Mama to come back," Gokudera concludes in Italian after a while of yelling. His voice hasn't cracked the entire time, impressively enough.

He sits down on the steps leading to the street. Hyacinthe exchanges a look with the second boy and sits down next to him.

"You said you were Vongola," Gokudera says, taking his bag of Gauloises.

"I am," Hyacinthe says. He pushes away the kid's bag, ignoring how he jumps, and offers a cigarette instead. "Hyacinthe Faure."

"What?" the kid says.

"Just call me Cen."

Gokudera has suspicion engraved onto his face. He probably doesn't know how else to show neutrality. He does accept the cigarette, though, and Hyacinthe feels some contentment at that. He has no business lecturing anyone on addiction, but he can't let a kid smoke Gauloises and look at himself in a mirror.

The other boy waves at Hyacinthe. "Yamamoto," he says, pointing at himself with his uninjured arm and grinning. Hyacinthe smiles and replies, "Cen," pointing to himself. And then he stops smiling, because Yamamoto's attentive eyes are scanning his fingers for traces of firearm-induced calluses and scars.

Jesus Christ.

"What business do you have with the Tenth?" Gokudera asks. He's already halfway through the cigarette.

"None," Hyacinthe replies. "My business is with a man named Reborn."

"Oh," Gokudera says. His shoulders sag, and he says something in Japanese to Yamamoto, who seems to relax as well. "That's fine, then. Reborn is out with the Tenth and his mom."

Yamamoto smiles apologetically. He hasn't stopped staring at Hyacinthe the entire time.

Hyacinthe isn't very used to hanging around kids. Even his youngest cousins are older than these boys are, the littlest of them already in her first year of college. There are no children at the Vongola manor and only the mad prince Belphegor at the Varia estate is younger than legal age. And Belphegor doesn't act like a kid so much as a killing machine.

It is possible that Hyacinthe's views on what is children-appropriate are a little skewed. He used to be such a normal guy, too.

They wait here for a long time. Yamamoto eventually tries to strike up a conversation with him in English, but it's not easy—his pronunciation is hard for Hyacinthe to understand because he's used to French and Italian accents, not Japanese ones, and his vocabulary is limited. The boy smiles a little deprecatingly at that, and Hyacinthe gathers that English isn't his strongest subject in school. He does look more like a sports guy than anything. Hyacinthe has always been terrible at sports and good at everything literary.

Gokudera switches between Japanese, English, and Italian the entire time. His Italian is fluent but his English is stilted. Hyacinthe really can't tell about the Japanese.

It's not a bad way to spend time. Hyacinthe's stress has all but evaporated since the dynamite thing and left only grim resolution in its wake, the way it always does when weapons are drawn at the manor. Which is often.

Eventually the owner of the house comes back. She's a woman in her late thirties, looking younger than that, and there's another boy by her side—a scrawny little guy who looks a good two years younger than the other two, until he opens his mouth to speak and Hyacinthe realizes why.

He's a little happy about it, really, but he swallows back his smile and doesn't say anything.

"Oh," the woman says when she sees him. Her smile is beautiful. It reaches all the way to her eyes and makes her skin glow.

"Hello," Hyacinthe replies, face warm.

"Are you a friend of Gokudera's and Yamamoto's?" she asks—in English. Her son looks at her with wide eyes.

"NO," Gokudera screams back.

He switches back to Japanese to explain the situation to her. The woman listens with a kind smile and nods enthusiastically at every appropriate moment, and when Gokudera is done he looks a lot more like a kid should, red in the face and eminently satisfied with himself.

"I'm afraid I don't know where Reborn is," the woman tells Hyacinthe next. She's really lovely, Hyacinthe thinks.

The last kid tugs on her arm, and points to something just behind Hyacinthe. Everyone turns in his direction and gasps, and Hyacinthe feels ice in his stomach just before the same voice from last night whispers, "Good afternoon," right into his ear.

It doesn't matter that Reborn is dressed like a _potted plant_ instead of clad in fitted pants and a silk shirt, because when Hyacinthe swings around to look at him he loses his ability to speak and to feel anything but burning shame.

 _Fuck you_ , he wants to say. "Marry me," is what comes out.

Reborn chuckles at him in the silence that follows. "I'm afraid I'm promised to another," he replies dismissively. "But I'm sure we can examine what business brings you here inside the house, Hyacinthe Faure."

He tips his green, leaf-covered fedora down and bows forward, gesturing to the door.

"Better dress like a tree next time, because I'm gonna _climb_ you," Hyacinthe warns. And since his mouth is apparently betraying him, he decides that from now on he will rage in silence.

The house is bigger inside than it looks. It feels similar and different at the same time from what Hyacinthe is used to—certainly nothing like his own mother's house, which is filled with plants and old mismatched furniture. The spaces here are clear and wide and the décor minimalist. It smells like cinnamon.

Two ridiculously small kids emerge from the living-room, chasing one another. They latch themselves to the woman's legs and start talking extremely fast in a mix of Japanese, Italian, and—Chinese? It sounds like Chinese. The woman listens to them calmly while she puts away her groceries, with the stumbling help of her son, who is keeping a wary eye on Hyacinthe. Hyacinthe would smile if he wasn't so consumed with frustration.

"Tsuna," Reborn calls. The boy lifts his head and groans, dragging his feet closer to him. Reborn picks up the conversation in Japanese, and somewhere in the middle, Hyacinthe catches his own name.

"Call me Cen," he says, because Tsuna looks as confused about his name's pronunciation as everyone Hyacinthe has ever met and who was not French.

"This is Tsunayoshi Sawada," Reborn says, gesturing to Tsuna. Tsuna squirms.

Hyacinthe stares.

"Sawada, huh," he says.

So this is Iemitsu's son. And the future Decimo. The boy looks half-terrified and like he hasn't slept in a while. There are circles under his eyes and his limbs are shaking slightly; when Hyacinthe looks at his face more closely he doesn't catch any resemblance to the Outside Advisor—Tsuna takes entirely after his mother, and isn't that relatable—but he does notice the fading bruises on his face and at his hairline where he looks like he's received a severe blow. Hyacinthe glances quickly at Yamamoto's broken arm.

He doesn't really like the implications of that.

"So what does Vongola's recluse librarian want with me?" Reborn asks, in Italian this time.

"Archivist," Hyacinthe replies. "And besides wanting you to take me to dinner and afterward take me to bed, I want my manuscript back."

Reborn has the gall to say, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Listen, beautiful," and, all right, Hyacinthe had meant to say _asshole_ , but it's too late to go back now—"you know perfectly well what you did. You took that thesis on toxic sea life without my permission and brought it halfway across the world, and now I want it back."

"Still not yours." Reborn sips his coffee, and only then does Hyacinthe notice that a cup full of steaming tea has been placed on the table in front of him. He didn't even notice Sawada guiding him to a chair. "I thought all those dusty papers were free to consult."

"They're not, you delightful creature. You need to go through me first, and then you can consult them if you have clearance to do so, but I would never have authorized you to take them out of the archive room." Hyacinthe takes pride in his work. This is not the first time someone has consulted the archives without his say so, but it _is_ the first time he's had anyone steal anything from under his nose. "Give me back the manuscript, thief," he says, extending a hand.

He half-hopes that Reborn will just give him his own hand in turn, but all the man does is look down quickly and then back into Hyacinthe's eyes. "You could've just emailed me," he replies.

"Nono _wanted_ me here," Hyacinthe admits grudgingly. "You practically stole Quinto's Sun Guardian's life work!"

"The man did have an interesting life," Reborn comments, browsing what looks like—what looks like a manuscript.

It's right here. Spread over the table. Old pages full of chicken's scratch notes and fast illustrations of what might be fish but look more like actual sea monsters. The pages are perfectly flat and intact. Hyacinthe didn't even see Reborn take them out, or where he took them out from.

Hyacinthe rests his forehead on his palm and lets the steam from his tea bring tears to his eyes. "Why did you even take that thing," he mutters in despair.

Reborn doesn't answer. In fact, he is suspiciously silent. Hyacinthe raises his head again and tells himself that he isn't disappointed to see the other end of the table empty, with only a dirty cup of coffee left behind.

Fucker even had time to finish his espresso.

"Are you all right?" Sawada's wife asks kindly, and Hyacinthe suffers a brief moment of needing to grab her skirt the way those kids earlier had and cry.

"I'm fine," he answered instead. He takes a sip of tea to calm down and chokes at the heat of it, but manages to swallow it without making a bigger mess of himself. "Just tired."

"You can stay here if you want," she offers.

"No, no." Hyacinthe shakes his hands in front of himself. "I'm good, I have a room at a hotel not too far—"

"We have a spare room you could use. I'd be happy to welcome you."

"Please don't—"

"Tsuna," she calls, and then she gives a series of fast-paced instruction to her son in Japanese that make Tsuna go wide-eyed and a little pale as he looks between his mom and Hyacinthe himself.

There's nothing Hyacinthe can do. Within an hour he's calling his hotel to cancel his reservation and telling them to keep all the money he paid in exchange for fast delivery of all his things to Sawada Nana's address, and Nana herself looks the picture of fulfilled joy, hands busy above the stove as she cooks a literal feast.

Hyacinthe does what he can to help, but he's never been a very adept cook. It's easy enough to chop vegetables and maintain small talk in English with Nana, though. It feels homely. Nana gives blunt knives to the two kids running around their legs and instructs them to peel some extra potatoes she apparently bought for the purpose of being butchered by five-year-olds.

Everything about her exudes motherhood. Hyacinthe has to remind himself several times that he faces certain death if he tries to flirt with her.

"So you like Reborn?" she asks over sizzling pork belly, because of course she caught that. Hyacinthe isn't very subtle.

"I want to f—fight him. I want to _fight_ him," Hyacinthe corrects her, and himself.

"Ooh."

"I want him to step on my skull and crush it, killing me instantly," he adds, because it's better than telling her he wishes Reborn was fucking him over the surface of his hotel room's tiny kitchen counter.

Nana hums contentedly. Hyacinthe looks back to the pastry dough he's kneading, except there's a fully grown chameleon now right next to his hand that looks nothing like Fantasma but has the same intelligence in its beady eyes.

Hyacinthe looks up. Reborn is staring at him from the couch, dressed in shorts and boxer's gloves and with an elephant hat on his head, but, yeah, he's mostly naked. Hyacinthe feels the conflicting urge to kill him and lick him.

 _Give me back my manuscript_ , he mouths at him.

Reborn sips his coffee and smirks, showing a row of perfect white teeth.

Hyacinthe can't come back to Florence without the manuscript. Everything in the archive is his responsibility, and he feels strongly about this, because the Vongola archives gave him back a sense of purpose. He was lost before meeting Nono's Mist and he's aware of it now, and the manor is his home in a way nothing has been, and Vongola is his Family. He knows Mammon is expecting him despite everything they say. He knows he can't stand the thought of going back empty-handed after the Ninth himself has sent him.

He doesn't like this house and all its hurt children, or how exposed his presence here makes him to the CEDEF's whim. Nono would protect him… probably. But Hyacinthe isn't supposed to know everything going on here. No one is supposed to know who the future Decimo is.

He's not supposed to tell anyone, including his best friend, and he'd rather get out of here fast and avoid making new unnecessary discoveries that he'll have to carry to an early grave.

Reborn wiggles his pinky finger at him mockingly, and Hyacinthe thinks, _Fuck it_.

He'll get his file back. Even if he has to spend months here to get it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My girlfriend's in a lot of pain right now and requested more Hyacinthe fic for comfort so I wrote 16 pages in 7 hours. What's up. It looks like I am continuing this fic after all.
> 
> Warnings include: violence involving children, more sexual stuff (in a humorous way), implied trauma & PTSD, Hyacinthe swearing a lot.
> 
> BETA'D BY SCARLETCAKE. THANK YOU SO MUCH SIB <3

**Venture Out Of Boredom  
** **Chapter 2**

"The _archives_ ," Mammon said.

Squalo looked at them like he wanted to scream.

"Yes," he repeated, voice tight on seething rage, "the _fucking archives_."

Mammon played with the hem of their robes. Anger had little effect on them besides that of making cold grow through them and their will to care seep out through their pores. "I don't even know where they are."

"Do I look like I do?" Squalo roared. "Just fetch me the fucking file, you piece of shit!"

Belphegor was grinning from his corner of the living room—the only corner where the walls were still free of claw marks and burns. Xanxus was out for the week as punishment for his last bout of fury; it had resulted in half of the kitchenware melting right onto the ground, making everything unusable. Apparently, the boss wasn't busy enough that he couldn't text Squalo cryptic orders for Squalo to then bestow on Mammon.

"I'm not going," Mammon answered, looking with little interest as Squalo's face grew redder and redder. He hadn't even armed himself this morning. The stump of his arm was moving aimlessly around, making him look about as threatening as Levi. "You couldn't pay me enough to go."

They chuckled for added measure. Squalo looked ready to start frothing at the mouth.

"Boss has been waiting for the opportunity to go for over a month," Levi said, walking out of the shadows like the stalking freak he was.

" _Boss_ can go there himself when he comes back."

"Show some _fucking_ respect," Squalo screamed at them, waving his stump. "He said you have to go, so you're _fucking_ going."

Mammon hummed. They could feel Fantasma's cold body wrapped around their wrist under the sleeve of their robe; he flicked his tongue at the inside of their wrist. "Why me?"

"Fuck if I know," Squalo muttered. "He said it had to be you."

It was pathetically easy to read the envy on Squalo's face, no matter how hard he tried to mask it as short-fused irritation. Squalo would never forgive Mammon for being by Xanxus's side before anyone else, no matter that Mammon themself didn't give a damn about it.

Levi cut into the conversation again, his voice grating Mammon's nerves. "No one's been allowed to go there since Bruno died."

There was a silence.

"Who the fuck is Bruno?" Squalo asked.

Lavi grew red in the face, too. "The late archivist of Vongola," he replied between clenched teeth. "Which you would know if you were actually interested in—"

"Yeah, no one's interested in your blood purity spiel right now, Levi," Mammon cut in. "Why a month? If they needed a librarian they could've just hired anyone from Mist's branch."

"The position of head archivist for Vongola has a very long and precious history," Levi said loudly, "much the same as the position of Guardian. The Vongola Archives hold the history of the Family and of the world together inside a magnificent fourteenth century chapel renovated under Secondo's don—"

"Bah," Squalo said, turning his back to Levi, "who gives a shit. Whatever. Boss was waiting for the damn thing to open again."

"I've never _been_ there," Mammon drawled. "And I hate going to the manor."

"Well, fuck you, because you're going."

Belphegor snickered.

Mammon changed the floor under the sofa he was occupying into a pit full of lava, quick enough that Belphegor, who had only arrived a few months ago, couldn't have predicted or gotten used to. The boy shrieked and wailed, his voice vibrating satisfyingly across the room and forcing Squalo to awkwardly try to plug his left ear with his stump. It was enough to drag a smirk out of Mammon.

They left the room while the chaos was still running high. Fantasma crawled on top of their head while they glided along the halls of the estate and to the frontyard. November was wet above their head, drops of rain clinging hard to their clothes and through their hood, until their hair stuck to their forehead and cheeks. Mammon snapped their fingers in the direction of the main hall, and a butler ran to them, holding an umbrella.

"Never mind that," they said curtly. "Get me a chauffeur, I need to visit the main house."

"Sir," the man replied with a bow.

Mammon didn't bother correcting him.

A young woman came out barely a minute later with keys to one of the cars in hand. She ushered Mammon to the back of it, insisting on giving them three different towels to dry with, regardless of the fact that the trip would take them about five minutes and that they would get soaked again the moment they set a foot outside.

Mammon petted Fantasma's head all the way to the manor. He had his nose stuck to the cold glass window, beady eyes roaming the murky grey sight of the naked hills they drove through. "Wait here," Mammon told the girl once they arrived. "I'll be right back."

They crossed the way to the entrance of the manor as fast as they could without doing themself the indignity of running. Another same-faced butler was waiting at the entrance with a pile of towels, and Mammon grabbed one on the way. They had started drying themself and walking toward the Ninth's aisle of the estate when they remembered they weren't here for that.

"You," they said, pointing to the butler. The man yelped unattractively and almost let the other towels fall to the wet floor. "Tell me where the archives are."

"The archives?" he repeated.

"Did I stutter?"

"No, sir," the man replied. "Um. Down the hall to your right, all the way past the flower garden, on the other side of the glass house—"

"Oh, I see," Mammon cut him off.

They had never realized the century-old building attached to the manor's southern gardens was actually in use, let alone that it served as a library. So that was the former chapel Levi had mentioned. Mammon had only ever known the library on the second floor near Nono's office, and which, according to Ganauche's infrequent reports, the don used more often than his own work place.

Mammon turned on their heels and started walking in the direction of the gardens. Fantasma wrapped himself around their neck this time, tongue flickering in and out to taste the air around him. Vongola's flower garden was a pathetic sight mid-November, drenched in rainwater, the soil turned to mud, spilling over the rock paths. The fountain in the middle was empty except for what the sky had wept over it and the greenish traces of weed around its walls. Mammon was almost sure they could see snails dragging their slimy bodies all over it as well.

It took them a good five minutes to reach the entrance of the repurposed chapel, by which point they had realized they could've gone around it and entered directly from outside the manor rather than losing time walking by the gardens. Their hair was still uncomfortably damp and sticky, their clothes glued to their skin; when they finally walked through the doors of the building the rush of hot air over their face couldn't mask the discomfort of hearing their shoes shriek wetly on the floor.

They were angry.

There was a woman seated at the main desk, hunched over a gigantic book full of tiny script, round-faced and dark-haired. In the light of the laptop screen she wasn't looking at she looked morbidly pale. A platinum stud piercing shone through her left nostril.

"Hey," Mammon called.

She inhaled sharply and looked up from the book—and truly, it was the hugest thing Mammon had ever laid eyes on—and Mammon had a brief second of hesitation. Maybe not a woman after all.

Whoever they were, their face made a drastic jump from tenseness to smooth polite concern and something of a casual slouch. "Can I help you?" they asked in English. Their voice was very high. A woman's voice.

For a moment, Mammon lost track of why they were here. "What's your name?"

The stranger looked at them warily, and then they said something incomprehensible.

"What," Mammon said.

"Just call me Cen," the person said, a charming smile on their lips and their brown eyes lost somewhere above Mammon's head, staring emptily.

"No," Mammon replied. "Say it again."

"Hyacinthe Faure."

A man's name and a woman's voice. Mammon nodded, which made Hyacinthe Faure stare at them with a bit of perplexed irritation—and then Mammon remembered why they were here.

"I need Secondo's birth certificate," they declared, walking toward the desk and shooting a glance at the open volume on it, the book covering half of its surface by itself. "And the records of every cook ever employed by Vongola."

Hyacinthe Faure's eyes seemed to glaze over. "Really," he said.

 _Really_ , Mammon almost replied. Almost smiled. Some sort of electric shock shook them at the thought, so they said, "If you don't mind _doing your job_ ," with as icy a voice as they could muster.

For a wild second their eyes met that of the librarian; and they thought Hyacinthe Faure would _snap back_.

Thankfully, the man seemed to remember his place. "Right," he said instead. He turned around to type quickly over the keyboard, scrolling through the list agonizingly slowly when he reached the search results.

"Today, if you don't mind," Mammon said between their teeth.

Hyacinthe Faure's back tensed before their eyes. All he did was keep scrolling, and then hum, and mutter under his breath—French, Mammon thought, but they were about as good at French as they were at being nice, so they couldn't be sure. Finally, he rose to his feet, gripping the edge of the desk so hard that Mammon knew with certainty he had almost tripped on his own feet.

They stopped smiling when they noticed how tall the man was.

"Follow me," Hyacinthe Faure said with a edge to his smile, now that he was physically looking down on Mammon.

Mammon did, silently. Fantasma was licking the air in the direction of Hyacinthe to their side, and if they focused, Mammon thought they could smell a hint of flower on the man, very faint. No perfume or cologne. Maybe soap or deodorant. Most of it was drowned under the scent of cold tobacco.

He was dressed rather smartly: black pants and black leather shoes and a black top, and above it, a salmon pink suit jacket—a woman's jacket, no doubt. It accommodated the span of his chest and opened over his collarbones, and before they could help it, Mammon looked at the skin there, the hint of ink etched into skin peeking above the line of fabric, black on his skin.

"There," Hyacinthe Faure said all of a sudden.

Mammon had rid themself out of the need to jump at things. It came with training themself to wield illusion and human perception and human brains. Still, they almost stepped back when Hyacinthe stepped forward and next to them, one long-fingered hand grabbing a very thin file between two very thick ones.

"Secondo's birth certificate," he said simply.

Mammon didn't know what to say in return, so they simply took the file.

"I can't allow you to take it out without clearance," Faure continued, leaning against the shelves and smiling at them with half-lidded eyes. "But you can make a copy."

"What about the cooks?" Mammon asked, finding their voice again.

"That'll take me hours to gather. Maybe days." He scratched over his collarbone, above the imprint of the tattoo on his chest—a constellation, Mammon thought distantly, tiny dots linking stars together and dipping under the edge of his collar so that they couldn't decide which one it was—"I can make the copies for you. Give me your phone number, I'll text you when I'm done."

Mammon looked at him in silence.

"Are you _flirting_ with me?" they asked at last, disbelief running through them.

Faure coughed, hard, and grabbed the edge of a shelf before he lost his balance. He almost managed to send the entire thing down with him. When he finally managed to stabilize it and look up, his face was beet-red.

"Fuck, _no_ ," he said, voice trembling even higher than it naturally was. " _Why_ does everyone ask me that?"

The muscles along Mammon's back relaxed for the first time since they had laid eyes on the archivist. "Is that how you treat every person you meet, then? The smiles and everything?"

Hyacinthe looked at them in incredulity. "Yeah, of course. That's just being polite."

 _No, it isn't_ , Mammon thought. But all they did was smile, sincere and warm, for the first time in years. "I have to admit I'm impressed," they chuckled. "It's not every day that someone acts like this around a Varia official."

"A what now?" Hyacinthe asked.

Mammon stopped smiling.

Silence hung between them, stretching awkwardly beyond the limits of strictly polite. Hyacinthe's face didn't lose any of its flush but Mammon's did, slow and tense. Fantasma stopped hiding under their hood and crawled on top of it, and Hyacinthe's eyes immediately zeroed in on him with a mix of fascination and horror.

"You're not Vongola," Mammon said.

Hyacinthe looked back at them. He put a hand against his shoulder again, thumb rubbing over his neck and the highest of his chest. As if he was trying to hide while knowing perfectly well that his body was too big for that. "I wasn't until three weeks ago," he admitted.

Mammon grabbed Fantasma, guiding him to hide into their sleeve again with a brush of their thumb against the cold scales of his head. "I thought this job was reserved for long-time Family members."

"I have no idea," Hyacinthe replied. "I only started yesterday."

"How did you get hired?"

This made him smile, weirdly enough. "I have strong opinions about art history."

It didn't answer Mammon's question. Faure didn't look like he was lying per se, but he hadn't looked like he was just being polite earlier either. Would a spy be this honest about not being Family, though?

"Which Family are you from, originally?" Mammon questioned again.

Hyacinthe looked uncomfortable. "None. I wasn't—I mean… I had no idea that this entire mafia thing even existed a month ago. The Mist Guardian hired me because he liked me, I think."

So either this guy was telling the truth, or he was talented enough to fool the Ninth's most cunning Guardian into getting a position _Levi_ considered honorable.

Mammon was surprised with how much they wanted the former to be true.

"Strong opinions, huh," they murmured. Hyacinthe looked a little guilty at that, but not much. "And here I just thought you had a death wish, flirting with _me_."

"Maybe I do," Hyacinthe said defensively, which made Mammon smile again with something akin to glee.

"You're like a baby." They put a hand in their pocket where the purple pacifier lay hidden, and it was skin-warm to their touch, as usual, like a living thing. "This is tragic."

Hyacinthe snorted. "The only tragedy here is your outfit."

Mammon laughed. Their fist closed around the pacifier and for once they didn't flinch back at the feel of it warming like a flame and pulsating like a heartbeat. They held it tight, as if wanting to smother the magic out of it, the way they hadn't dared do since Verde had found a way to bring them back—not completely, but enough. Just enough. When they were done laughing their stomach ached, like sores, as if they had just exercised thoroughly. It took a moment after that for their breath to come back to a normal sort of rhythm, and even then, none of the tension from earlier came back.

"My name is Mammon," they declared. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Hyacinthe grinned. He looked out of place in the low light and dust of the chapel, stuck between rows of books and papers and photographs, the gold key of the building hanging from his neck and glinting softly. Like he should've been standing on a bight-lit stage somewhere with arrogance breaking out of him. Like he had missed his turn along the way.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. Mammon had missed a lot of turns as well.

 

* * *

 

Hyacinthe doesn't remember anyone making him feel as emotionally unstable as Reborn has in the last forty-eight hours, besides maybe his mom. It places him very high up the list of people Hyacinthe wants to avoid, and truly, he does want to avoid him. The fact that he's desperately hot for the man doesn't make him less infuriating, and the fact that for the two whole days he's been here Reborn has woken him up by dangling Quinto's Sun's manuscript over his face has made Hyacinthe very, _very_ angry.

"Wanna put your dick there instead and see if I _bite_?" he seethes on the morning of the third day. He doesn't even open his eyes; he sweeps a hand over his face mechanically and feels the caress of old, soft paper on his skin as Reborn retreats away from his bed. "Jesus fucking Christ."

To Hyacinthe's pure, unadulterated horror, a tiny voice says, "Bad words!"

He opens his eyes and sits up too fast—for a long moment he sees nothing but grey spots and feels nothing but the buzz of fatigue at his temples and the hole hunger is digging into his stomach. He blinks, turns his head; Reborn is nowhere to be found by now but Lambo is standing in the doorway, his pajamas stained and drool around his mouth.

"Lambo," Hyacinthe says.

Lambo tugs the lollipop out of his mouth with a disgusting wet sound. "Mama says it's breakfast time," he announces.

"Uh."

"Didn't you hear," Reborn says in Hyacinthe's ear—and Hyacinthe feels the blood rush to his face like flood gates have opened in his neck, and he starts feeling dizzy with it by the time Reborn chuckles and steps away from the wall. He's wearing clothes the exact same color as the wallpaper. "Time to wake up, Hyacinthe Faure."

"Can you fu—" Hyacinthe inhales. Chokes a little. "Please get out of my room, Reborn."

"What were you gonna say?" Lambo asks, very loudly.

"Something bad," Reborn tells him. "Almost as bad as your aim."

For a second Hyacinthe dares hope that Lambo won't get it; but the boy does, and his face grows red even as his eyes water, and a pink grenade materializes in his hand. "Die!" he screams at the grown hitman standing in the room before throwing it, and Hyacinthe is still in bed and he has his legs out of the blanket but he doesn't move. He's been outrunning those grenades for two days now. He's tired.

Maybe Reborn gets a flicker of concern in him, or maybe Hyacinthe is just lucky that for once the grenade does reach Reborn and Reborn choses to swat it right through the window. The glass breaks from the strength of the throw but at least the thing explodes outside, still in the air.

The tree that sprouts from the neighbor's garden right next to the stone wall separating it from Nana's is singed. Flames crack along the high branches. Reborn hums, and his magic chameleon turns into a pipe and sprays water at it from the broken window.

This is Hyacinthe's life now.

"I'm hungry," he mutters. "I'd like to change into clean clothes, if you don't mind."

"I'm gonna _kill_ —" Lambo starts. He lets out a strangled noise then, because Tsuna is in the doorway and has picked him up into his arms.

"Sorry," he says, in English. He's half-dressed into his uniform, his hair a complete mess and his eyes darting nervously between Hyacinthe and where Hyacinthe supposes Reborn has fused back with the wall of the bedroom.

"It's okay," Hyacinthe replies gently.

Tsuna smiles like he's about to die. Then he runs off and down the stairs with Lambo still squirming in his hold.

"He should be better than this at speaking English," the wall says in a deep, sultry voice. "I arranged it so he'd have an excellent teacher at school."

Hyacinthe throws his pillow in Reborn's estimated direction.

 

* * *

 

There hasn't been much for Hyacinthe to do since he arrived. He doesn't run after Reborn because he hates running and because Reborn always comes back to taunt him anyway, like he's just a kid inside the body of a gorgeous man. Mostly Hyacinthe helps Nana with chores and cooking and sits down in the garden to smoke for hours while emailing Lisa at work. She's friendlier when she's not in his immediate vicinity.

Mammon hasn't answered his texts in twenty-four hours. Hyacinthe looks at his empty notifications and shakes the ash off the tip of his cigarette absently. He's sitting on the edge of the wooden terrace with his bare feet in the grass, dew wetting his soles.

Yamamoto sits down next to him, and Hyacinthe jumps out of his skin, phone dropping from his fingers and onto the grass.

"Sorry!" the boy says immediately, in Japanese. "Sorry," he repeats in English. And then he smiles the same bashful smile Hyacinthe saw on the day he arrived and leans down to pick up his phone for him.

"S'fine," Hyacinthe mutters warily. He nods his thanks when Yamamoto hands back the phone and takes another drag of his cigarette, taking care to exhale the smoke where Yamamoto won't receive a faceful of it.

He can feel the boy staring at the side of his face. It's a little awkward. Yamamoto doesn't speak English and Hyacinthe only knows the barest of Japanese platitudes, like how to ask where the bathroom is, or how to say _good night_. He doesn't need to ask either of those at the moment.

"Are you here to pick up Tsuna?" he asks, still. Yamamoto takes a moment to understand, but then he nods. Hyacinthe smiles. "Gokudera here too?" Yamamoto points backwards, and when Hyacinthe turns his head he sees Tsuna's other friend and his sister Bianchi, whom he met the day before.

"This house is a fucking nightmare," he grunts around another puff of smoke.

Next to him, Yamamoto smiles.

The grass moves then, up and up like a whole pan of it is just lifting up from the ground. Hyacinthe lets out a shout of terror-disgust when it grabs his ankle and pulls.

Reborn lifts his grass mask and unrolls the grass scarf from around his head. "Today you're going to school with them, Hyacinthe Faure."

"Stop _fucking_ with me," Hyacinthe replies, looking at the sky and lying down on his back, heart beating a hole right through his throat.

"Just fuck you, right?" Reborn says with mild amusement.

Hyacinthe splutters. He closes his eyes and tries to regulate his own breathing and stop the panic attack and nausea in their tracks, at least enough so that his head stops swimming. There's a deeper rage simmering inside him than there has been in months, maybe years. He opens his mouth.

And he chokes again, because he almost chews on bitter paper. He snatches the sheet out of his face and sits up, ready to yell for less profound reasons again.

"You'll get another one when you come back if you accompany them," Reborn says. He's holding a page of the manuscript in his hand and waving is carefully around, barely firmly enough to make the air move.

There's another page in Hyacinthe's hands. It looks perfectly intact except for a very faint damp spot from his own saliva, which should fade on its own within a couple minutes. Half of the page has the description of some kind of marine plant on it and the other a drawing by Quinto's Sun's hand—some kind of algae, but with teeth.

Hyacinthe clenches his free hand. "You _took it out of the binding_?"

"Don't worry," Reborn replies. He's started fanning himself with the page he's still holding, and the grass blades on his somehow _fitted_ costume are plowing lightly under the breeze he's creating. "I'm not a savage. I'll put them all back in when you're done collecting every page."

"No you won't," Hyacinthe replies. He pushes himself to his feet with some difficulty and stands.

Hyacinthe is a tall man. It doesn't matter that Reborn is taller, that's expected of genetics and averages and other such nonsense. Hyacinthe stands proud and digs his index into the wet grass-suit the hitman is wearing.

" _I'm_ getting them back into the binding," he hisses. "I'm not letting you touch this file any more than strictly necessary. And what the fuck do you mean, _collecting the pages_?"

Reborn smirks down at him. "I'm setting up a system of effort and reward," he says.

"I'm not a child."

"You look twenty at most."

"I'm twenty-six," Hyacinthe says, and tries to kick Reborn in the shin. Reborn sidesteps him easily. "No one would come after you for spending a wild night in with me."

For some reason Hyacinthe has a moment of hesitation at his own words, and the vague, anxious feeling that he's forgetting something. Reborn doesn't look like he's noticed, but Leon the chameleon is staring at him with his clever yellow eyes. It feels a lot like X-ray machines do.

"You can either comply with my requests and get your pages back one by one," Reborn says in a bored voice, "or say _adieu_ to your precious file altogether."

"Don't you _adieu_ me when you can't even pronounce it right," Hyacinthe grits out.

"Precisely," Reborn says, smirking.

And then Hyacinthe blinks, and the man is gone.

It's a long while before he stops staring angrily at the spot where Reborn was standing. Yamamoto moves next to him, rising to his feet—and Hyacinthe remembers that Yamamoto was here at all, was here the whole time. His face burns again. He's never been so grateful that the boy can't speak a language other than Japanese.

Hyacinthe looks down at the page he's still holding between two fingers. It's a thick and soft kind of paper, an old kind. The ink looks like it's fused with it over the centuries. And, truly, one page is already better than nothing.

He checks his phone. Still no text from Mammon.

"All right," he says out loud. "I'll do it."

Yamamoto looks at him curiously.

 

* * *

 

Gokudera looks suspicious of Hyacinthe's presence on their way to school until Hyacinthe quiets him with a cigarette. It makes him feel a little like a drug dealer, and he has to reassure himself that, technically, what he's doing is not as illegal as providing a minor with _drugs_. Even if it's still illegal.

Reborn is nowhere to be seen. Even Tsuna looks relaxed, which is as good an indicator as any that the man isn't around for once; actually, Tsuna is looking at Hyacinthe more than the road and barely misses hitting a streetlamp a few times. Yamamoto or Gokudera pull him out of the way every time, and the boy apologizes and laughs it off.

It's a little obvious, and a little sad, what the boy wants from him, Hyacinthe thinks. He avoids meeting Tsuna's eyes as much as he can and tries not to think too hard on how he must appear to the other, with his boyish hair and his deep voice, wearing a blue tie with pink flowers over a black suit, with a diamond stud in his nose and stars inked into the skin of his chest.

Hyacinthe is not very good at talking to children. He's not very good at talking to anyone who isn't as bitter as he is. He'll talk to Tsuna about gender if he has to, but until he does—as long as Tsuna's English or Hyacinthe's Japanese are too poor to hold an actual conversation—he'll put it off.

He doesn't like thinking that this is why Reborn is holding him here. If Reborn really cared he'd do the reassuring and the educating on his own instead of using him.

Gokudera starts screaming on the road in front of them. Hyacinthe doesn't immediately react, since hearing Gokudera scream has become a habit now that he's been in the boy's presence for about three days; but then he raises his head to look out of bored reflex and freezes.

There's another boy at the end of the street, right next to the school's entrance. He has a weapon drawn and gives out the same kind of icy, slimy dangerous feeling that Hyacinthe feels around the mad prince of Varia.

"Mmh," he says, and tries to turn around.

Reborn is standing right behind him. Of course.

"You wouldn't happen to be here to give me a good bye kiss, would you," Hyacinthe says.

Reborn smiles. "No." He grabs Hyacinthe's shoulder and turns him around uncaringly, so Hyacinthe has to watch the disaster happen.

Gokudera is sent flying within the first thirty seconds of the fight, if it can be called such. Yamamoto only lasts about a minute longer. And then Reborn gets involved, points a gun at Tsuna and shoots, and it's only because Hyacinthe has seen Dying Will Bullets before, encased in crystal deep in the old Vongola chapel, where they keep Monet's Charing Cross Road—only because they've been used on him before—that he doesn't wrap his hand around Reborn's throat and choke him to death.

Tsuna rises from the ground, almost naked, with a Dying Will Flame shining bright orange on his forehead. It's the same as Basil's. The same as Iemitsu's.

Hyacinthe grits his teeth and watches Tsuna fight an opponent way stronger than him with bile rising to his throat. "You're despicable," he tells Reborn, after Tsuna takes a hit to the torso that should've shattered at least one of his ribs. He's only still standing because of the effects of the Flame.

For once, Reborn doesn't reply.

Hyacinthe lets the cold take over. He lets himself be distanced from empathy and from nausea, until he's barely aware that a fight is happening at all, until his body feels like it's floating in water and he's slowly drowning, peaceful, like choking out a candle.

Another voice screams, then. The wail pierces through the fog in Hyacinthe's mind and he blinks slowly, until he can watch rather than just see. A teacher has run out into the courtyard with a fire extinguisher in their hands—Gokudera's dynamite.

Hyacinthe hasn't even heard it go off.

His feet take him forward almost automatically. The teacher—a short thing with twig-like limbs and bright grey hair—is _dragging_ the black-haired boy back into class, and for a reason Hyacinthe doesn't want to start contemplating, he's letting them. He barely looks annoyed. It's like the last five minutes haven't happened at all.

Except Tsuna is lying on the ground with a bleeding nose and a bruise the shape of a fist in his side. Hyacinthe kneels down next to him despite how his back protests and gives him the jacket of his suit to cover up with.

He doesn't really have words. Tsuna doesn't seem especially shocked at everything that happened either, just resigned and a little surprised. A lot thankful.

"Fucking prick," Hyacinthe says between his teeth. He has no doubt that Reborn heard him.

Yamamoto and Gokudera are pulling themselves upright without his help, and their clothes are intact besides the odd black spot on Gokudera's sleeves and a couple drops of blood from a cut in Yamamoto's cheek.

In the distance the teacher has stopped dragging the dangerous boy around. They're slumped onto the steps leading into the school instead, face pale and blank of all emotion.

"His name is Hibari," Reborn says, then, satisfied. "He's an interesting one."

"Interesting for what?" Hyacinthe replies without looking at him. "For getting Nono's heir killed?"

"For becoming the new Cloud Guardian."

Hyacinthe doesn't have a very good relationship with Visconti. It comes from the fact that _Croquant_ doesn't have a good relationship with Visconti either, and Hyacinthe isn't too proud to admit that he's very biased when it comes to his boss. "I thought Clouds were supposed to be the aloof protectors."

"Yes, well," Reborn says with a grin. "I'm putting a bit of a twist into the tradition."

The Ninth must've gone senile, Hyacinthe thinks, to put the future of the Family into this man's hands. No matter how nice the hands look.

"So why did you bring me here?" he asks tiredly.

Reborn looks at where the teacher with grey hair is sitting. "This is Tsuna's English teacher, Ylva Byquist."

"I'm never gonna remember that name."

"It doesn't matter. I want you to learn Japanese from them."

Hyacinthe stares at him in wonder. "You made me watch this disaster just so I could meet Tsuna's _teacher_?"

Reborn tugs on the rim of his fedora so the shadow of it covers his eyes. It should be ridiculous, but it just looks hot. "Byquist is one of two people that Hibari Kyoya doesn't want to kill on sight. They might be useful in the future. And if you want to make yourself useful as well, you'd better start learning the language."

"I don't want to make myself anything—" Hyacinthe stops talking to catch the thick page Reborn is letting drop to the floor from above his head. " _Fuck_ you. Don't fucking get it dirty, this is an antique."

"Two pages," Reborn says airily. "Two hundred and thirty-two to go."

He's standing in the sunlight and yet his eyes are cold. So, so cold. Hyacinthe doesn't feel the danger that surrounds him as strongly as others must; he's not a mafioso. At least not in that meaning, no matter what Mammon says.

"Fine," he says.

"Excellent."

"I have a condition, though."

The way Reborn looks at him is the way he must look at insects, Hyacinthe thinks. It's unflattering and vile. He'll probably think even less of him when he hears what Hyacinthe has to say, but still, Hyacinthe pushes the words out of his mouth: "You stop jump scaring me."

Reborn chuckles. "It's so much fun, though."

"Maybe for you," Hyacinthe snaps back. "But I've been getting nightmares again and I'm really goddamn tired of people setting back all my progress just because they think I'm _fun_ to mess with when I'm paranoid."

His heart is racing. He really hopes he doesn't have to say more than that—that he doesn't have to spell out every letter for Reborn to get what he means.

Reborn stares at him for a moment before bringing the edge of his hat down again dramatically. "I guess I can compromise on this," he says.

There's no faking the relief that shoots through Hyacinthe at his words. It's almost better than he imagines having sex with this man would be. He doesn't say _thank you_ , but it's a close thing.

"I'll have to find a better way to keep you interesting," Reborn continues, tapping his index on his chin. "Maybe have Bianchi slip you a bit of her cooking every morning, build up your poison resistance."

"Motherfucking—"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ylva Byquist belongs to Hyde (@guineung on Twitter). They're not gonna be very important to the story but it was fun writing in someone else's OC. Ylva is cool.
> 
>  **EDIT** : Hey I know everyone feels satisfied because I'm finally continuing this but that doesn't mean I stop needing some kinda reciprocation for my efforts. So if you liked the update I'd appreciate if you dropped me a word to tell me/support me for further updates... it's always the same with WIPs, people stop commenting once chp 2 is out because they figure the author doesn't need support anymore or whatever. Well, that's not true. Thank you & I'm truly sorry that I have to post this reminder with every single chaptered fic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: swearing

**Venture Out Of Boredom  
** **Chapter 3**

_Are you still in Japan?_

This is the first message Hyacinthe has gotten from Mammon in almost a week, now. It's what greets him when he opens his eyes to one of the Sawada household's many guest rooms this morning. For a couple minutes he blinks tiredly at the screen of his phone and regrets that he stopped wearing glasses when he was fourteen.

He knows Mammon is bad at texting. Hyacinthe himself is terrible about remembering to stay in contact with people he cares about, and though years of being close to Mammon prevent him from falling into the usual cycle of delusions about them hating him, he still hasn't made much of an effort. It's not the first time they stay days without keeping in touch at all. Mammon is an assassin. The job occasionally requires that they not contact anyone they know for weeks at a time. Hyacinthe himself is firmly turned off the concept of constant communication with anyone anyway. The last person he dated was like this, and he doesn't think he can live through that twice.

He thinks he and Mammon had been going somewhere different before he left, though. That they had reached a sort of comfort zone together, a rhythm, a pattern. That they had both been more open and relaxed than ever before together. It's perhaps his one regret. He still only has two pages out of the two hundred and thirty-four that the manuscript he's seeking comprises; he's nowhere closer to getting it back than he was when he arrived.

He shouldn't have stayed.

_Yeah_ , he texts back hesitantly. _I'm sorry this is taking so long_. And, though this isn't something that they do, he adds: _I miss you_.

He waits for a few minutes, heart beating fast in his chest. There is no answer.

Hyacinthe knows himself enough to realize he's being affected by more than just a fleeting bad mood. He fights the hole inside his guts enough to sit up and then stand; he puts on clean clothes and, in the empty bathroom, splashes cold water over his face. When he looks into the mirror he looks paler than usual, and his hair is black, no red in sight.

He resists the urge to punch the glass.

" _Nice_ ," Bianchi says when he gets downstairs; she's looking at the foxglove-printed leggings he's wearing with a glint in her eyes that doesn't bode anything good for the rest of the day.

Hyacinthe peeks into the coffee pot carefully. Reborn, seated at the end of the table, pours himself a new cup and drinks it smugly; Hyacinthe knows better than to think the man isn't immune to everything in Bianchi's possession, though.

"Good morning," Reborn says.

"You look better without the suit jacket," Hyacinthe replies.

The man smiles mysteriously.

He does look suspiciously smartly-dressed. He has on the same sort of suit that he did when they met and he swept Hyacinthe's heavy body into his arms like it weighed nothing; his hat is off, nothing masks how horrid his hair looks without anything covering it. He's still the sexiest man Hyacinthe has ever laid eyes on.

Hyacinthe clenches his fists as he sits down in front of Reborn, and he takes a large gulp of his coffee before realizing that he forgot to check if anything was in it.

There's no reaction from Reborn except for that same all-knowing stare he gives everything and everyone impartially. Hyacinthe has yet to meet anyone he doesn't look at like this. He says he and Bianchi have been coworkers before and that he has great respect for her—but his eyes are thankfully as devoid of meaning when he looks at Gokudera's sister as they are when turned to Hyacinthe himself, or _Tsuna_. The way he glances at Nana is perhaps a little less terrible. Hyacinthe doesn't feel too jealous of this fact, because he can relate.

"We'll be going out today," Reborn announces after putting his cup back onto the table. Nana saunters in from the kitchen with a smile and a hum; it's not until Bianchi snaps her fingers in Hyacinthe's face that he realizes he's staring at her.

"Right," he says dumbly.

Bianchi smiles. It makes uneasy shivers run up his spine.

" _You_ have an appointment with Ylva Byquist today," Reborn continues.

"Whom?"

"Hayato's English teacher," Bianchi replies. Her voice is almost as low as Hyacinthe's.

"Oh." Hyacinthe recalls the strawy person he saw on the day the monster-kid beat half of this house's inhabitants to death. "Right."

Then he bites the inside of his cheek, because Reborn takes a piece of paper out of his sleeve where it's apparently been rolled carefully this entire time; it could've gotten stained by coffee or sweat or _torn_ —

Hyacinthe makes a grab at it and finds himself upended on the floor.

He didn't even see Reborn move, let alone trip him and his chair alike.

"I'll be testing your abilities tonight," Reborn says above him, waving the page into his face. "Tsuna and the others are already out for school and will later join with their friends Kyoko and Haru."

These names are new. "How many friends does Tsuna have?" Hyacinthe asks tiredly.

Reborn smiles unpleasantly. "As many as needed."

 

* * *

 

The problem that follows is a predictable one. Hyacinthe has only gone the way to Tsuna's school accompanied, once, almost a week ago; he has no idea where to go now. The map he got on his first day has been mysteriously destroyed, leaving only singed remains behind; the reception of his phone turns exceptionally bad as soon as he leaves the house, which makes him suspect foul play, as this is a Vongola phone, supposed to work in nuclear wastelands.

"Whatever," he mutters. The day is cloudy and smells like rain. He doesn't have an umbrella with him. He's too pissed to come back to the house and subject Nana to his temper—or worse, to Reborn's—and he doesn't want to be here anymore when Shamal or whoever else he hasn't met yet arrives.

He doesn't think Reborn can pull anyone worse than Shamal out of his endless pockets, but he's not willing to put his theory to the test either.

Hyacinthe sticks a cigarette between his teeth and holds up his thumb and index to its extremity; a tiny lick of blue burns bright for a moment, catching the end of the paper and tobacco on fire; at the same time, a wave of calm crashes over him and soothes every muscle in his back.

He takes a deep breath of the smoke. It crawls into his lungs, warm and familiar, and as it comes back out of his lips he feels his brain turn off and buzz pleasantly.

He feels tired as soon as the blue flame flickers out of existence, but it's worth it, even if Sawada Iemitsu's unpleasant voice is ringing in his ear disapprovingly: _"Your Flame isn't a damn zoloft pill, Faure."_

Sawada can fuck right off.

Hyacinthe doesn't remember which way to go. All the streets of this residential area look the same to him. At one point he walks past a school that isn't the one he's looking for—it's smaller for once, with big grey walls surrounding it, and the one student he can see at the entrance looks better dressed than Tsuna and his classmates.

"Excuse me," he says in Japanese, trying to get close to the girl.

All she does is scream and throw the cardboard cutout thing she was holding at his face. " _Ow_ ," he yells when it shoves itself into his eyes; he starts tearing up from the pain immediately and suffers a brief incandescent bout of crushing fear that he's lost his eye altogether.

"Oh no!" the girl says, in English but still at screaming volume. "Oh no, I'm so sorry!"

Hyacinthe is bowing forward now, holding his eye with both hands. His half-smoked cigarette is still stuck between his fingers.

"God damn it," he swears lowly, and the hesitant steps he heard approaching falter a little; when he blinks his uninjured wet eye open he can see the blur of the girl's silhouette cut out against the wall of her school.

"I'm so sorry," she repeats. "I thought a monster was attacking me."

By this point Hyacinthe is too angry to get any angrier. He resists the urge to insult her or kick the wall she's leaning on as hard as he can and draws in a large breath. "It's nothing."

"I may have pierced you eyeball!" she screams.

It makes his heart beat faster with the fear of it, but he clenches down on the terror and cuts in, "Calm down. I'm okay."

"Really?" she asks shakily.

Slowly, he takes his hand back and wipes the tears from his right eye. There's no trace of blood on his fingers, and the pain is already receding. He carefully opens his eye and looks toward her.

"See?" he says.

Now that he has both eyes at his disposal again, and the ability to blink restored, he can see that she's on the verge of crying herself. There's a faint shiny spot under her nostrils and she's completely red with shame.

It makes his anger recede. She's just a kid. "I'm all good," he says, and he tries to smile reassuringly.

All it does is make a sob rip out of her throat and tears flow down her face, and she starts wailing right where she is.

A bell rings from her school but she doesn't move. Hyacinthe is stuck in place, his eye still hurting from the blow even though he can see mostly fine. He brings his now unlit cigarette back to his lips and rummages through his pockets for a lighter.

It's snatched out of his fingers before he can do anything with it.

"Smoking is bad!" the girl says. Her eyes are dry now.

"O-kay," Hyacinthe replies. He thinks about dropping his cigarette but reconsiders, because the girl is holding his wrist tighter and tighter by the second. Hyacinthe doesn't like being held like this at all; he picks his pack from out of his jeans and puts the cold stick back in, grimacing at the thought of how bad it'll smell later.

The girl releases him immediately. "I'm very sorry for hurting you, Ma'am," she says.

Hyacinthe doesn't correct her because he doesn't think he can bear seeing her have another meltdown. "Uh, it's okay. No harm done."

She bows even lower, and she yells at the ground, "Please let me help you in any way I can!"

"It's alright." He's getting tired now. He only wanted to ask for directions. "Um… do you know where Namimori Middle School is?"

She straightens up and eyes him, suspicious once more. "What do you want with Nami Middle?"

"I've got an appointment there," he grunts out. "Look, I'm already late and I got lost, I really just wanted to—"

"I'll take you there!" she exclaims.

She has her fist raised to the sky and everything. Hyacinthe has never met anyone who switches moods as fast as she does, and he's somewhat of an expert in the matter himself. "There's really no need for that," he says wearily.

"The walk will be good for me!"

"Don't you have _school_?"

"Self-study day!"

He eyes the cardboard thing she threw at him. Now he can see that she was painting it—half of a monster-looking thing has been colored in with explosive blues and yellows and reds. "Are you making the décor for a play?"

"No?" she replies, and she looks at him like he's lost his mind.

Hyacinthe keeps his mouth shut after that.

The girl doesn't stop talking the entire way to the school, however. If anything his silence seems to spur her on to mention every single shop she knows and everything she's doing at the moment. Hyacinthe eventually starts recognizing the streets they're going through and tries to tell her that she can go back to her own school now—but her lips tighten into a white, worried line, and she says in a low voice: "I'm here on a reconnaissance mission, truly."

He's so, so tired. "A what?" he asks.

The girl looks to her left and right dramatically. "The man I intend to marry goes to this school… I want to see if he's okay. We haven't talked in more than a week and he was very injured when—"

_Oh, no_ , Hyacinthe thinks. He can feel his attention wavering as she speaks like it's been trying to for at least ten minutes; his eyesight glazes over and he feels how tense his shoulders are, almost aching, and how much he craves the last half of the cigarette he never finished.

The sky opens above them and rain starts pouring down.

"Fucking _hell_ ," he cries out. The girl yelps, and he's not in a much better position himself. It's icy, he gets drenched within thirty seconds of standing in it, and there's nothing to do but run toward the entrance of the school.

Hyacinthe hates running.

He does it anyway. He drags his body toward the hall he can see in the distance, the girl already way ahead of him. His breaths come out sounding like whistles, and there's pain in his side, because he never exercises his body in any way.

Eventually he does reach the entrance and slides onto the wet floor there; the girl is barely wheezing, her face flushed healthily where his must be beet red. He leans against a row of lockers and tries to regulate his heartbeat.

A towel is thrown at his face. He chokes a little and almost falls to the floor, only managing to stay upright because his shoes are expensive and not too prone to sliding on anything. He's fully ready to scream by the time he takes the offending thing out of his face.

"Hibari-san," the girl says happily, and Hyacinthe stares into the grey eyes of the boy-monster who knocked out three other boys, two of which were taller than him.

It's not just childish amazement that makes him falter. There's an aura to this kid that makes him feel the way he does around Belphegor whenever the mad prince waltzes into Mammon's suite at the Varia estate. Like bloodlust is hanging onto every breath he takes in his presence.

The boy says something to him, and a shiver runs along his body. The girl next to Hyacinthe nods and translates, "He says someone's waiting for you. I didn't catch the name."

"Ylva something," Hyacinthe replies softly.

The boy—Hibari—looks at him with disdain for a second longer. Then he turns on his heels and lets his jacket billow dramatically behind him as he walks away. Another boy is waiting for him at the end of the hallway, and he follows into Hibari's steps like Hibari is a figure of supreme authority. Despite being half as tall.

For a moment there's only silence. The girl looks at him with a kind of curiosity that wasn't there before and which reminds Hyacinthe, a little strikingly, of Tsuna's.

Hyacinthe takes a breath. He pushes himself upright and drags the towel down his face before he speaks. "Thank you for taking me here."

"It's no problem," she chirps, still in that careful voice.

Well. She knows Hibari. Which makes it very likely that she is connected to the mess he is in, somehow.

Though he can feel himself regretting it already, he asks: "What's your name?"

She looks stricken with guilt at his words. "I completely forgot! I'm Haru Miura."

Hyacinthe looks up at the ceiling. He has no doubt that Reborn could've planned for this meeting to happen the way that it did, but also, he would really like to know why the man bothered at all.

Hyacinthe doesn't plan on becoming a fixed thing here. He misses home.

He misses Mammon.

With his throat weirdly knotted, he smiles, and extends his hand: "I'm Hyacinthe Faure. Just call me Cen." She shakes his hand enthusiastically before peeking at the corridors they can see from where they are, and he remembers in a flash that she's basically admitted to being a stalker.

"Um."

"I don't think you should be staying here," he says worriedly. "You should go back to your school."

"Excuse me—"

"But I wanna see Tsuna-san," she pouts, and he feels his heart sink. "If you know Hibari-san then you must know him, right? He practically _told_ us we could, there's no need to hurry out—"

"I don't want to stay here a minute longer than I fu—"

" _Excuse me_ ," someone practically screams, and something hits Hyacinthe's back hard enough to make him topple forward.

And truly, he's been holding back for a long while now, so he turns around and snarls, " _Fucking_ watch it, dude."

In front of him stands the tiny teacher he's supposed to be meeting. He'd feel worse about yelling if he wasn't dripping wet and cold and nicotine-deprived and probably in the middle of a bout of acute depression, but even so, the sight the person makes is enough to make a tiny hint of pity prick at his conscience.

Hyacinthe is tall compared to most people. He's tall compared to this person too, and they're thinner than he can ever remember being—skinnier than Mammon, even. Their hair is probably dyed but it might as well have greyed naturally for the sheer panic on the other's face.

Still, he doesn't apologize.

"You're… Mr Faure, right?" they ask. Their voice sounds terrified, but most of all their English is weird—Hyacinthe doesn't think he's ever heard this sort of accent before.

"Right," he replies. "You're that English teacher. Ylva—something."

"Byquist," Ylva Byquist says helpfully.

"Okay." He's never going to remember it. "Can I call you Ylva?"

The other's eyes widen ever-so-slightly. Next to Hyacinthe Miura Haru is hunching forward with curiosity on her face, and when Ylva takes a look at her theirs grows even paler. They look ready to just fade out altogether.

They swallow. "I suppose that's okay."

"Great," and Hyacinthe makes himself smile and his shoulders slouch. His voice is sweeter when it comes out. "I'm sorry for being late. I got lost."

"That's quite alright," the other murmurs.

They're still looking at Haru like they can wish her into non-existence just by staring. She doesn't seem to catch their intent at all, because she says, "I'll wait for you here, Mr Faure," with a winning smile on her face.

_Please go away_ , he doesn't say. "Ts—Everyone's probably in class."

She's not listening. She's already taking off her shoes and shoving them into the first free locker she finds. Then she's simply gone, leaving only a dark laugh behind.

"I hope she doesn't get killed," Ylva says in an even voice, and Hyacinthe decides that he's just going to ignore everything for the day. He's not staying in this school longer than he absolutely has to.

"Reborn told you what he wants from us?" He asks them.

They nod. "For me to teach you Japanese. I'm not sure what your level is, though…"

"I watched a lot of anime as a kid," Hyacinthe says, hopeful.

Ylva's mouth becomes weirdly pinched at the corners.

It turns out that the teacher has their own office somewhere on the third floor. Hyacinthe and Ylva walk there in uncomfortable silence, and Hyacinthe uses this time to towel off the worst of the wet. He rids himself of his black sweater and ends up wearing only his leggings and a tank top. "Sorry," he says when he bumps into them accidentally as they walk—Ylva doesn't reply, simply looks at him a little despairingly.

Their office is tiny. Just enough to host a table, shelves and drawers, and two chairs. The second chair looks like it probably had to be squeezed in. Even so, Hyacinthe sits down and stretches until his back cracks satisfyingly.

Ylva is still looking at him like they want to tell him he's doing something extremely inappropriate. It makes him feel self-conscious, which makes him feel irritated.

"Do I have something on my face, Ylva?" he asks evenly.

"No," Ylva says. They look like they'd welcome death with open arms. "Uh, it's nothing. Sorry."

_For what?_ he thinks. He cracks a knuckle one-handed under the table to let out the tension he's feeling, but it doesn't help much. He wishes he could spark another lick of blue Flame between his fingers without risking a fainting spell.

Ylva makes a show of rummaging through their drawers, but it's useless; with the space the second chair takes they had to pull back their desk, therefore making opening most of its storage space impossible.

In the end, they rest their trembling fingers atop the desk itself and ask, monotonous: "You're not… like Reborn, are you?"

"I wish he'd take my name, or I his," Hyacinthe replies. "But other than that, I have nothing to do with his admittedly gorgeous ass."

They make a soft, squeaking sound, that after a second Hyacinthe realizes is terror.

He frowns. "Is there something wrong?"

"Look," they say lowly. Their lips are barely moving but their eyes are darting around like they're expecting the walls to open up around them. "I never asked for any of this. If my mom back home knew I was getting involved with _assassins_ and—and kids who act like _criminals_ —"

"Is Hibari _that_ bad?"

"Hibari-kun is _wonderful_ ," Ylva replies with pride in their voice. "He's just… a little rough at the edges."

"He's strong enough that Reborn wants to make him into a full-blown mafioso," Hyacinthe says dryly.

He realizes too late that he probably shouldn't have said the m word without making sure Ylva was in the know. But all Ylva does is look more distressed than they did earlier and keep speaking in the same distressingly even wheeze of a voice.

"All I'm saying," they murmur, "is that I don't want to get in trouble with Reborn. So I'll teach you Japanese. But please stop hitting on me."

"Please stop—" Hyacinthe chokes a little. He coughs. " _I'm not hitting on you!_ "

Ylva covers their ears with the palms of their hands dramatically. "I don't want Reborn to come after me and my family because he thinks you and I are having an affair! Don't involve me in your relationship with him!"

"Oh my _God_ ," Hyacinthe snarls, face burning red with embarrassment. He resists the urge to physically hide like a child and instead takes hold of Ylva's wrists firmly, trying to make the other lift their head and look at him. "I'm not in any sort of relationship with Reborn," he hisses.

"I'm not judging," Ylva says, the skin of their face turning almost translucent, "I just don't want anything to do with—"

Hyacinthe's heart is beating against his palate and his entire head feels hot with the blood rushing there. Even his neck is throbbing. He tugs on Ylva's forearms, making them lean forward over the tabletop. "I'm not," he repeats.

"Um," Ylva squeaks, looking somewhere into Hyacinthe's neckline.

"I would—no," Hyacinthe cuts himself off, and he accidentally spits out the word as he does. "Look. Reborn doesn't care about me. I don't care about him more than superficially. It's all good."

Ylva drags their eyes up slowly. "I just wanted to have a good, stable job," they plead.

And Hyacinthe would like to be able to answer in kind, but the truth is, he always knew he was getting into the sort of mess you don't get out of. "I understand. I swear you're not in any danger." Nothing more dangerous than Hibari, at least.

"He just sounded so _authoritative_ ," Ylva says with a deep exhale. "So _emotional_. Like he really really _needed_ you to be here. He's never been this desperate before. Not even about Hibari-kun."

Hyacinthe distracts himself from the thought of hearing Reborn speak to him in all sorts of authoritative ways by staring fixedly at the hint of light brown hair growing out of Ylva's scalp. He catches himself before letting his fingers touch the crown of the other's hair by automatism. "Right."

Slowly, he releases Ylva. Ylva leans back into their chair until their stomach is no longer being stabbed by the corner of the table.

After a long moment of silence, they say, "I'm sorry," a little mortified.

Hyacinthe's face is still hot with shame. "It's fine," he replies.

Ylva doesn't say anything when he lights a cigarette indoors. Not even when he uses his Flame again to light it and almost loses consciousness to the feeling of soothing warmth spreading through his limbs and numbing every emotion he's feeling all at once.

 

* * *

 

He's groggy all through Ylva's lesson, when the teacher eventually manages to reign in their fear and embarrassment enough to actually teach him. At least Hyacinthe is a quick learn. He takes to languages naturally by virtue of already being fluent in three; the writing and reading is going to be tougher to master, but he's confident that he can learn to communicate verbally rather easily within a couple months of daily lessons. It helps that Ylva is also a good teacher, when they're not too busy looking tiredly into empty space as if waiting for certain death.

The aching fatigue in his limbs doesn't alleviate on his way back to Nana's house. The atmosphere is still heavy with rain, though it's not pouring anymore. There's not drizzle but the air is so wet he feels like every breath is drowning his lungs in icy water. Miura Haru went off with his lighter earlier and he hasn't seen her since coming back out of Ylva's office. The only person he has crossed paths with was Hibari, who was perched on top of a flight of stairs right outside the door. The boy looked at Hyacinthe with squinty eyes until he was gone. Thankfully, he made no move to attack him.

Ylva seems to like the boy well enough. Hyacinthe can't relate, but then, Hyacinthe doesn't really like children at more than surface level. Just enough not to wish them harm. It comes with an unbalanced childhood, he learned once; and then he disregarded the info and decided that he didn't need a troubled past to dislike anyone. He could do that all on his own.

Mammon was there for that conversation, and he can still hear the way they laughed when he said it.

There's been no reply to his text from this morning. Maybe it's the cold weather, clinging damp and heavy on Hyacinthe's sleek black coat and to the salmon-pink silk scarf wrapped around his neck, but he feels like something terrible is looming overhead. He stops by a convenience store to get a new lighter and smokes as he walks, with his head lost in the clouds and dread filling his guts with every step he takes.

Two street corners away from Nana's house he sees someone he recognizes and looks down to avoid their eyes automatically—and then he raises them again and gasps.

There's no one. Hyacinthe is frozen with one foot behind, as if someone's hit pause on his walking cycle; when he takes the cigarette back from between his lips he does so slowly, thoughtlessly, and still staring as if he can make Dino Cavallone's silhouette materialize like he thought it did a second ago.

Why would Cavallone be here?

It takes a moment before Hyacinthe can make himself walk the rest of the way to Tsuna's house. The limo parked in front of it is already a bad sign as far as he's concerned, but it's the eagle perched atop the fence outside that truly gives him the chills.

Its little eyes are fixed onto Hyacinthe and glinting the way Fantasma's do. The way Leon's do. Clever and human-like.

Hyacinthe crosses the threshold of the gates with careful steps. The bird doesn't move, doesn't caw, doesn't attack; it just lets him through and follows him with its eyes until he reaches the door.

"Sure you want to get in?" says Reborn's voice behind him.

Hyacinthe's hand pauses on the handle.

He feels Reborn approach. In the corner of his eyes he can see that he's put a ridiculous transparent rain cape over his expensive black suit and that his awful hair is covered by a hat once more. For once the seriousness on his face seems real rather than faked.

"I'm staying here, aren't I?" Hyacinthe says lowly.

Reborn leans against the door and looks at him. Hyacinthe ignores the warmth that floods him at their proximity.

"You're an interesting one, Hyacinthe Faure," Reborn says in Italian. He sounds infinitely more like an asshole in his mother tongue. "If you'd come here a few weeks earlier I would've made a grand old time of you for Tsuna's sake."

Hyacinthe releases the handle and clenches his fist. "So you're really only keeping me here so I can be the convenient—" he can't say it. He hates saying it. There's anger boiling inside him that is born out of nothing more than the feeling of being used.

It's the feeling Hyacinthe hates the most in the world.

When Reborn speaks again he doesn't even deign answer. "Your presence is good but your timing is inconvenient. I have to admit," he tugs the hem of his fedora over his eyes to spread the shadow of it across his face, "I only borrowed this book because it contained many interesting spots of wildlife, filled with many interesting creatures. I thought I could use it for Tsuna's training."

"You had no right to—"

"I had no idea you'd be interesting," Reborn cuts him off. "That was my mistake. Timoteo must've been very careful with hiding you."

Hyacinthe blinks, mouth still open. He has no idea what Reborn is talking about. The Ninth has never _hidden_ him from anyone. He isn't anything special. He hadn't even been a mafioso before he let his temper run wild in front of one who was looking to hire. He doesn't know how to express all of this, so he says: "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I ultimately don't care whether you live or die, though, or whether you have a lasting impact here," Reborn continues aloofly, as if Hyacinthe hasn't spoken. "But as a thank you for the fun I've had in the last few days, I'm going to offer you a choice."

He marks a pause here for effect, head bowed, hat shadowing his eyes.

"I am," Hyacinthe grits out, " _this_ close to physically attempting to unhinge your jaw. And not in the sexy way either."

Reborn smiles at him, feral.

He touches Hyacinthe for the first time without attempting to play a trick on him; his hand rests on Hyacinthe's left shoulder patronizingly, and Hyacinthe feels the dread travel up from his stomach to the hollow of his neck.

"As of today the statu quo of Tsuna's life has changed," Reborn says without a hint of humor in him. "If you come inside and decide to stay, there won't be any going back for you. If you learn of what is happening tonight you'll be involved in the innermost secrets of the Family… you'll lose something. There's no guarantee that you'll gain anything in return."

_You're scaring me_ , Hyacinthe thinks. It takes a second for the realization to come into full bloom.

It takes less than that for the irritation to take over.

"Fuck off," he says, knocking Reborn's hand off his shoulder. "I'm already part of the Family. I'm the Archivist of Vongola. I'm here on duty."

"Very well," Reborn says. "Maybe you should've thought on these words and their meaning a little longer, though."

"What do you—"

Reborn steps back suddenly; and the door Hyacinthe is halfway leaning on opens to the inside, making a strangled noise fall out of his mouth and his own body fall on top of someone else's.

"Pathetic, Colonello," Reborn scorns above them.

"Shut up!" the man under Hyacinthe roars. "Damn idiot. Are you okay?"

Hyacinthe turns his head backward to look at who he's sitting on. Blond hair and blue eyes and freckles. "Um," is all he says.

"Oh," says another voice.

Hyacinthe and the man he is considering staying on top of turn their heads to the newcomer; and it is yet another distressingly attractive man—who also looks distressingly like Hibari—standing in the corner of the hallway and observing them with a not very kind sort of laughter in his eyes.

"How many of you are there?" Hyacinthe wonders out loud.

"Who's this?" yet another voice comes, and it's one Hyacinthe recognizes this time, even before Sawada Iemitsu had time to walk into his line of sight and gawk at him. " _Faure?_ "

"Advisor," Hyacinthe replies.

They stare at each other with equal parts surprise and antipathy.

The blond man starts squirming, eventually. Hyacinthe feels his face flare with heat and pushes himself off the other's stomach—he ignores the hand that the man in red who looks like Hibari extended in his direction.

Not-Hibari smiles at him darkly as he draws his hand back.

"Sorry," Hyacinthe says to the blond man.

"No problem," blond man growls.

Then he strides past him and Reborn and all the way to the giant bird keeping watch over the entrance like some sort of ancient spirit—the bird rises into the air majestically, and his sharp talons wrap themselves around the blond man's shoulder, as if it has done this all its life.

Hyacinthe wonders what it says about him that he doesn't know whether to keep staring at the bird or at the man's backside. He's always had a thing for army gear.

"What are you doing _here_ , Faure?" Sawada Iemitsu says. His breath stinks with alcohol from where Hyacinthe is standing, but that's something Hyacinthe has come to expect from his few contacts with the man. "No one's supposed to be here."

"It sure raises some worrying questions," not-Hibari says. "Though I'm certain it's nice to meet you."

"Really?" Hyacinthe replies. "Because you don't sound certain at all."

"How did you find this house," Sawada keeps going. The look on his face is clearing out of drunk-out buzzed, and he's stepping forward, making Hyacinthe go back—until his back meets with Reborn's front and he looks up, only to see the hitman smirk down at him.

Sawada's hand flees to the lapels of his jacket where Hyacinthe knows he keeps his gun; and with growing anxiety he realizes that this time it won't be Dying Will Bullets flying out of it.

"Is that guy—uhh," the blond man says, peeking above Reborn's shoulder. "Sorry. Is that person the one who sold you out, then, Reborn?"

"I _knew_ we shouldn't have let Croquant just hire whatever _freak_ he wanted for that job—"

"Okay," Hyacinthe cuts in coldly. "Advisor, shut the fuck up."

Sawada splutters indignantly.

Hyacinthe rummages through the pockets inside his coat with trembling fingers. He doesn't remember when the last time he has touched the letter is but he _thinks_ he's put it in this coat and not taken it out since—he almost cries in relief when the pad of his index hits soft, velvety quill paper. It's warm like a living thing from Nono's Flame seal on it.

Hyacinthe throws the slightly crumpled letter in Sawada's direction. "Read this."

The man still has his gun in hand. The barrel is out of sight but the handle is glinting in the evening light like an omen; still, he pauses, and takes the time to skim the letter. Nono's seal flares beautifully when Sawada brushes his own fingers against it.

"All right," he says, and spends another second putting the gun back inside its holster.

Hyacinthe breathes slowly. His heart is practically ripping itself out of his chest. "Now if someone wants to explain to me who these two—" he points at the blond man with one hand and not-Hibari with the other "—are, and what the head of CEDEF is doing here?"

"This is my house," Sawada says.

Hyacinthe stares at him. "Are you _fucking_ with m—"

"Faure," Reborn says, low enough that only Hyacinthe can hear him.

Hyacinthe closes his mouth, and his teeth click together loudly. "Okay. Fine. Who are you, then?" he looks to the blond man.

"Name's Colonello," the guy answers with a smile. He looks like he's just come out of a toothpaste commercial, one that is weirdly geared toward Hyacinthe's tastes in boyhood crushes.

"Hyacinthe Faure," Hyacinthe replies, charmed despite himself. "Call me Cen."

"Haha. I'm never gonna do that."

"I'm Fon," not-Hibari says.

Hyacinthe waits, but the man doesn't add anything else. "So," he continues. "Anyone wanna fill me in on what happened? And tell me if any more surprises are waiting inside?"

"Dino Cavallone is here too," Sawada mutters.

"Great," Hyacinthe laments.

"As for why we're all here," Reborn says, "I think it'd be best to keep this conversation going inside."

Hyacinthe forgot they were still standing in the hallway, and himself pressed against Reborn's front. Heat floods his head even as he brusquely detaches himself, and he pretends not to feel the contempt Reborn directs at him from behind.

The living-room is a welcome sight. Nana is overjoyed, cooking a practical feast, with Lambo running around her legs. I-Pin _dashes_ toward Fon as soon as he steps into the room and latches herself onto his thigh. It makes him smile in a painfully tender way. Hyacinthe looks away.

Tsuna is nowhere in sight. Neither are Gokudera and Yamamoto. Even Bianchi is gone.

"Nana," Sawada calls loudly. She yelps happily before turning to him, and then Hyacinthe doesn't try to follow a word that is exchanged between them in Japanese. Eventually he must've asked her to leave them all alone, because she walks into the kitchen and closes the door behind herself.

Hyacinthe sits at the table and waits until everyone else does before asking: "What the hell is happening?"

"Tsuna's recovering in his bedroom," Sawada says tightly.

"He got attacked," Reborn adds. A cup of coffee has just miraculously appeared between his hands, which Hyacinthe doesn't question.

"By whom?"

And the dread that has been building up starts tasting like bile on the back of Hyacinthe's tongue; because Sawada Iemitsu looks at him with open hostility in his eyes—the way he looks at enemies.

Reborn's cup makes a tidy little porcelainy sound as it hits the table. "Squalo of the Varia."

In the second that follows Hyacinthe feels several things at once again; reassurance first, automatic and overwhelming, because everywhere Varia goes Mammon goes as well; then incredulity and fear; and then the golden key around his neck warms up like a flame on his skin, chain tightening tightening like a thin brand over his throat, and through the white haze that covers his vision he sees, with eyes he didn't know he possessed, Destiny move ahead with a click of its ivory wheels.

He doesn't even have time to panic about the fact that he can see those wheels appear. Or the fact that every man at the table looks like he's been dipped in gold. He hears a voice that doesn't belong to any of them whisper into his ear, weighed by centuries:

_"Remember. And commit to memory."_

 

* * *

 

Mammon knows they've been staring at their phone for too long to be inconspicuous. They know not everyone on the team is dumb enough to believe their silence is the usual kind, not when it's accompanied by sullen inactivity and refusal to engage in any sort of gambling.

They don't feel like placing bets over who's going to be killing whom. The growing feeling of doom they've felt since Cen announced that he had to go to Japan—only days after Xanxus explained his plan—has been replaced by the sort of bone-deep terror they haven't felt since the day the curse took them and turned their body into a stump of itself.

"This is going to be a fucking piece of cake," Squalo roars behind them for the upteenth time. Xanxus is long gone from his gloating position on the throne at the end of the table. Probably passed out drunk in his room. Squalo isn't much better, though half of it is probably due to the concussion he received when the rings turned out to be fake. "Kids. Just _kids_."

"The prince is disappointed," Bel whines from his corner. "The prince wanted blood from warriors."

"The boy is of Vongola blood," Levi grumbles tiredly. "Noble blood."

He's lucky Xanxus can't hear him.

Mammon wants to tell them to shut up. The temptation of the bottle open on the table has never been as strong as it is now, but they don't give into it. They renounced alcohol and other mind-altering substances when they chose the path of illusions.

They can't stop seeing it, though. Reborn's face this afternoon, drenched in the rain, cold and calculating. And with it the knowledge that indeed, this is where Cen has come. Right into the battlefield.

It's truly irony that though Mammon has dreaded meeting any of the others for decades now, they're only feeling like this because of someone who doesn't even know anything about the curse. Someone who doesn't have an inkling of how long Mammon has been alive or how special he is to them.

They're tired. They haven't slept in forty-eight hours. It's the only explanation as to why Cen's _I miss you_ makes them feel anything more than cold amusement, they tell themself—the only reason why, even though it's too late into the night and too late since Cen has messaged them, they write back: _Go back home immediately. Please_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens... :^)  
> Leave a nice comment for a starving author!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: swearing, sex jokes, kids thrown into violent situations, etc.

**Venture Out Of Boredom  
** **Chapter 4**

Hyacinthe blinks, and the white cogs disappear.

His heart is beating in his throat, almost suffocating in its intensity; around him the room is spinning because of all the blood rushing to his head, and soon enough he starts seeing things again—shadows and dark spots, like bugs flying around—before he realizes that he's not breathing at all.

He exhales once, too loudly. Reborn and the others are looking at him with very different expressions. Sawada is suspicious, Reborn is indifferent, Fon is… something.

Colonello looks concerned.

"You alright, pal?" he says.

Colonello doesn't seem to know whether to address Hyacinthe as _man_ or _lady_ , and Hyacinthe is too old to be called _kid_ , now. It's a little funny. Hyacinthe giggles, light-headed. "I'm fine," he says breezily. "Do go on."

It takes a long time for Sawada to do so. His eyes are shining with disgust and animosity and a stronger glaze of alcohol. Hyacinthe can smell the sake on him from where he's sitting. Finally, Sawada speaks again, something about half-rings and Xanxus's long-lasting rebellious behavior that he took care to talk to Nono about, of course, Nono just didn't listen.

Hyacinthe thinks back to the vision with nausea rolling around his stomach. It isn't anything like the small-fry type of hallucinations he gets when he's tired or through sleep paralysis. The ones he's seeing right now. He's never _heard_ anything before.

He's too old to develop schizophrenia, right? Or maybe he isn't. Hyacinthe hasn't seen a psychiatrist since he was nineteen, and he'd stopped obsessively diagnosing himself with every disease known to man around that time, too. He thinks he can remember reading about twenties to thirties when it comes to schizophrenia—not too old then. Perfectly in the range. He can't be sure until he checks.

 _Great_ , he thinks, fingers twitching in his lap. He feels overheated, his leggings sticking to him unbearably. He wants to run upstairs and take off his clothes and steal the smaller bathroom for himself for an hour-long shower.

"Reborn," Sawada is saying now, "I need you to tell me who you've selected to be Tsuna's Guardians."

"Sure," Reborn answers, finger stroking the handle of his cup. "One of them is Mukuro."

Hyacinthe doesn't know who Mukuro is. Neither do Colonello or Fon, apparently. But Sawada's face turns crimson, like he's just bitten into hot pepper, and the _"What?"_ that escapes his lips is nothing but seething.

"Illusionists are a luxury nowadays, especially good ones," Reborn smirks. "And Mukuro is more than just good."

"We don't need an illusionist for the job! Mukuro wants to _destroy_ Vongola!"

"Of course he does," Hyacinthe mutters, and in front of him, Fon smiles.

"Illusionists are tricky," he replies mildly. These are the first words he's uttered since introducing himself. "But they are fascinating people. And not someone you want facing you."

Tsuna is screwed, then, Hyacinthe thinks. There's no way Mammon will turn against the Varia.

"Tsuna has already beaten Mukuro once," Reborn says, as if reading his thoughts. "He can do it again. I've already worked out a deal with Mukuro in Vindice."

"He's in _Vindice_?" Hyacinthe asks.

Reborn sips his coffee, which has been mysteriously refilled. "Mukuro will never be physically present by Tsuna's side," he tells Sawada. "He's got an ally that he can use to help. I've already done the necessary in case the present situation ever occurred."

Reborn uncrosses his legs and bends forward over the table, the tip of his hat shadowing his eyes. Leon crawls up his arm and nestles in his neck, yellow eyes flicking open and close. It's hard to remember that Reborn is mostly made of bullshit when he looks this serious and well-dressed.

"Xanxus will want a battle to decide the heir and Guardians," he declares. "Most likely one-on-one, so he gets to watch Tsuna despair as all his allies crumble before his turn is even there. It doesn't even matter to him if _his_ allies win or lose—he'll kill Tsuna, and take all the rings for himself anyway. Xanxus doesn't play fair."

Neither does Belphegor. Or Mammon, who has the soul of a cheater, over and over again.

Thinking about Mammon isn't really helping.

"Gokudera will be Tsuna's Storm," Reborn adds, raising one long finger. "Yamamoto is about perfect for Rain. Sasagawa Ryohei will make a good Sun—Colonello, you'll get along with him. He's an idiot." Hyacinthe feels too tired to find Colonello's cry of rage funny. "Mukuro will be Mist, Lambo will be Lightning—"

"Lambo," Hyacinthe cuts in.

Reborn's eyes are hidden in the shadow, but Hyacinthe knows he's looking at him. "Yes," he replies.

"Lambo is _five years old_ ," Hyacinthe says. "All of Varia is made of adults—of assassins! Lambo can't defend himself from that! A great majority of adults can't defend themselves from that either!"

"This isn't for you to discuss, Faure," Sawada barks.

Hyacinthe gives him the arm, middle finger extended so high up that his knuckles ache. "Shut the fuck up," he spits. All of his body feels white-hot with anger. He doesn't wait for Sawada's reaction to his insubordination and turns his head back toward Reborn. "You're not assigning a five-year-old to a death match against one of Xanxus's sbires."

His tone is final.

"Faure," Sawada growls, and his tone makes the small hairs at the base of Hyacinthe's nape stand upright. "If it were in my power, you would be _groveling_ for forgiveness right now."

There's a moment of silence. Hyacinthe is still seeing bugs, his temples still buzzing with adrenaline and anxiety, his thoughts occupied by the worry that he really is unlocking another level of screwed-in-the-head.

It doesn't matter. Hyacinthe knows the Ninth wouldn't allow a child who can't even read to take any part in combat against the Family's elite assassins.

Reborn huffs, and his lips stretch into a satisfied smile. "It's not in your power, though," he tells Sawada. His head lifts, and his piercing black eyes meet Hyacinthe's under the brim of his hat. "Only the Boss can fire the Archivist. Isn't that right, Hyacinthe Faure."

Hyacinthe frowns. "That's right," he replies. "But what does this have to do with—"

"I'd say the man has some measure of input to give on the situation, then," Reborn continues. "As an important member of the Family. His position is prestigious—just as much as the Consigliere's." Sawada makes an ugly noise at that. "So tell us. Who would you have as Tsuna's Lightning Guardian?"

Right above his head, and right above Sawada's, the cogs come back.

It's all Hyacinthe can do not to faint right there and then. His fingers grip the hard edge of the table, nails digging into the wood until they start hurting; but the white cogs are there, encased with each other, and the men under them turn gold once more.

No one else seems to notice them. Not even Reborn. They all look at Hyacinthe in expectation, and Hyacinthe is tense enough that the brush of a feather would topple him sideways or back, he thinks. He's waiting for the voice to speak again.

It doesn't. Eventually he has to answer—Reborn's forehead is creasing, not in worry, but in irritation. "I don't know," Hyacinthe admits. "They're all kids. Aren't there any adults in the Family who can take care of it? They shouldn't have to fight at all."

He's been restraining himself from saying it this entire time, but he can't anymore. The fact that the house is so silent except for them—knowing that Tsuna is recovering from injuries he probably would never have suffered if it weren't for the men sitting around this table—all of it stings at whatever's left of his conscience, pulls him forward, swims awkwardly through every fear in him.

The cogs creak, making his heart jump in his chest. They aren't moving, but they look ready to. Golden filaments link them to Sawada, to Reborn, and to each other. The filaments expand and grow, neither liquid nor gas, crawling out of the men's chests and heading toward Hyacinthe's. Toward the key he keeps around his neck. When they touch it, Hyacinthe's body turns gold as well.

He has to struggle not to gasp, not to raise his hands and observe how metal-like he looks and doesn't look. It isn't paint and it isn't fabric. It's as though his skin itself is shimmering in the white light.

"He isn't wrong," Colonello says, unaware as they all are of what Hyacinthe is seeing. "Maybe _he_ could be Tsuna's Guardian, rather than the kid."

"He can't," Sawada answers. "If the Ninth could've gotten one of his Guardians to take care of the Archives, he would have. But there's an old rule about that for some reason. Can't Guardian _and_ Archivist. Apparently the rings and the key cancel each other out."

"He doesn't look very sturdy anyway," Fon adds, eyes fixed onto Hyacinthe.

"Aren't you the one who picked the weakest girl you could find to be your disciple?"

All of their voices sound faint and faraway. The more Hyacinthe waits, the more the world around fades, until it's only himself, Sawada, and Reborn, standing gold-on-white, the cogs looking ready to burst.

"Haru," Hyacinthe says.

The world comes back.

"Miura Haru?" Reborn asks him.

And Hyacinthe wants to say _no_ , because Haru is a kid as well—but something inside him knows. Something, someone, is whispering the words in his mind, and all of him agrees with them. "Yes," he says, against his will, lips moving despite his best efforts to keep them shut, "make her the Lightning Guardian."

The cogs click, rotating clockwise for only a second. Then they vanish. The gold bleeds out of Reborn and Sawada's skins, the liquid-gas strings linking them to Hyacinthe turn to dust and then to nothing, and Hyacinthe breathes in.

He stands up. Wobbles. Catches himself on the table, his skin back to its normal shade of sickly beige. There's sweat running down his back and his knees are weak. "I'll be right back," he tries to say in as neutral a voice as he can make it.

He manages two steps before his legs give out.

He doesn't even care. The exhaustion is so profound and absolute that he knows he'll pass out before hitting the floor and probably not wake up until noon the next day; but there's someone by his side before he can touch his knees to the floor, catching him around the middle, linking an arm around their shoulders.

They smell familiar.

"You don't look too hot," Fon murmurs, his cold breath touching Hyacinthe's neck. "And I mean that both figuratively and literally."

"Dude," Colonello is saying from Hyacinthe's other side. It seems he didn't get there as fast as Fon did. "What's up with… Er."

"Him," Hyacinthe mumbles. "Or whatever. I don't give a shit right now."

"Let's get you some tea," Fon offers.

"Fuck off."

The other smiles, and helps him forward.

It's a bit infuriating, really. Fon is about a head shorter than Hyacinthe, for once—taller than Mammon, but not by much. His clothes are deceptively loose, too, because what Hyacinthe feels when grabbing the man's upper arm is nothing but muscle under tense skin, powerful even when unused. Mostly, though, Fon has done nothing all evening but look at Hyacinthe like he's privy to the funniest joke he's ever seen.

Hyacinthe lets go of him as soon as the door to the kitchen is open and stumbles his way to the small table there on his own. Nana is gone, probably upstairs to see how Tsuna is doing; and Hyacinthe's stomach is churning, thinking about _how_ Tsuna must be doing, after being attacked by Squalo.

"You're a bit weak-willed," Fon comments from the counter. Hyacinthe glances in his direction and sees him put some water up to boil and rummaging through the drawers, looking for tea. "Understandably so, considering your job, but it makes me all the more curious as to why Reborn gives you the time of the day."

"He doesn't," Hyacinthe replies. "He just thinks I'm funny because I think his ass is the eighth wonder of the world."

Fon laughs loudly. Hyacinthe knows his face is too hot and too red, but he still glares at the other for it. It seems that Fon really is the cherry on top of the cake of assholes today.

Fon drags a second chair away from the table with his foot and sits down, the movements so fluid that Hyacinthe barely has time to register them.

"I can see the appeal," he says conversationally, resting his chin on his fist. "His personality makes the package a bit hard to find enticing, though."

Hyacinthe squints at him. "What are you playing at?"

"What do you mean?"

"This," and Hyacinthe points to the tea and the table and the door, which Fon has closed as soon as they came in, as if to give Hyacinthe privacy. He's still so tired that holding up his arm is very difficult. "You've been making snide comments at me all evening. Looking at me like I'm doing stand-up comedy. What the fuck is your problem?"

Fon's lips stretch into a smile. He still smells familiar, somehow; a burnt, strong scent, one that Hyacinthe knows he'll feel at the back of his throat if he breathes it in for too long—but not unpleasant. Almost sweet. It isn't food and it isn't flowers. Not wood…

"Cen, was it?" he says lowly, interrupting his thoughts, and Hyacinthe sneers.

" _Hyacinthe_ is good enough for you."

"Fine, then. I'm not planning anything with you." He seems sincere enough. "I don't even care about you, really. You just remind me of someone I know."

It's impossible to judge from his tone alone if this is a good or a bad thing.

Hyacinthe doesn't have time to find a way to answer, because Colonello barges into the room with a bang, apparently deciding to forego the door's handle and just kick it open with his foot instead.

"This is someone's house, you know," Fon points out, already standing up, looking like he hasn't just had a faintly hostile conversation with anyone.

"Door's fine," Colonello replies. "Lal said she hired the engineers who built the place herself."

"Explains how Reborn has been able to stay here for so long."

"Anyway!" And Colonello shoves his index finger into Fon's face, almost close and fast enough to make him lose an eye. Fon doesn't blink or move away. "Are _you_ gonna be okay, man?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's the Varia. The _Varia_. _Viper's_ gonna be there."

Fon's hand comes up, wrapping itself around Colonello's wrist gently. Hyacinthe can't tell if this declaration has made any difference for Fon, but Colonello looks both excited and worried.

"I'm not involved," Fon says evenly. "I came here because Reborn informed me that my pupil might be in danger, that's all."

"Like I'm gonna believe that."

"Believe what you want, Colonello. I trust your impeccable instincts."

"I know this is sarcasm, but I'll let it slide," Colonello says, a charming smirk on his lips. Hyacinthe's heart isn't tired enough that it doesn't flutter at the sight of it. "Still, this is amazing, isn't it? Four of us together. It's been a while."

"Am I bothering you?" Hyacinthe throws in.

"Yes," Fon says, at the same time as Colonello replies, "Sorry, Faure. How are you feeling?"

"Oh, You know. Fucked up."

Colonello nods, understanding.

The kettle starts whistling. Fon's body moves to the counter, still in the same fluid way that seems to leave an afterimage behind and that makes Hyacinthe question if he doesn't need glasses, too, on top of everything else.

Fon sets a mug full of green tea in front of him only a blink later. It's the only thing that makes Hyacinthe realize he's lost a few minutes in the meantime. Colonello is sitting at the table now, the ridiculous eagle from earlier sitting atop his shoulder, and—there's a monkey.

A very small monkey. It's sitting in a chair too, right next to Hyacinthe.

"Hello," he says to it, because he's too tired to make sense of anything. His back is a solid wall of pain.

The monkey nods, as if to return the greeting, and Hyacinthe takes a scalding sip of tea with his heart beating in his throat, wondering if he's hallucinating this as well.

"Her name is Lichi," Fon says. His fingers come up to rest on top of the monkey's head, scratching her scalp. "So, what did they decide about the Lightning Guardian, in the end?" These words are addressed to Colonello.

"Oh. I think Reborn insisted on that Miura girl after you both left."

"She's going to die because of me," Hyacinthe mumbles into the cup. His tongue is burning.

"Most likely," Fon agrees. "She might have a better chance than that Lambo boy, though."

Yeah. Like sending a fly instead of an ant to battle an elephant.

Hyacinthe's phone buzzes loudly in his jacket. He almost doesn't take it out at all. All he wants now is to focus on climbing up the stairs so he can crash into bed and not wake up for twelve hours. Not have to think about the white cogs and the voice and the irresistible force inside him that made him say Haru's name. Just—not think at all.

But a lifetime of habit makes him take out the device anyway, and then it's Mammon's name on the screen that shoots through him like electricity, jumping him awake. He opens the text with shaky fingers.

 _Go back home immediately. Please_. That's all the message says.

Hyacinthe isn't too tired to feel truly angry, after all.

 _Go back home yourself_ , he texts back. _Better yet, convince your boss not to take out a bunch of teenagers! How about that!_

 _I can't fucking do that_ , Mammon replies.

_I can't leave either! I still don't have the book!_

Hyacinthe can feel Colonello, Fon, and both the eagle and the monkey looking at him. He swears under his breathe and stands up, pushing away the dishonest offer for help that Fon gives him and wobbling out of the kitchen.

Sawada and Reborn aren't in the living-room anymore. Hyacinthe keeps close to the wall, most of his weight resting against it as he makes his way to the stairs and then up. The railing is easier to use as a crutch but he still feels every single one of his muscles scream. He hasn't felt this sore since the one and only time he tried to take up cardio.

Hyacinthe bypasses Tsuna's room without stopping and despite the low voices he can hear inside. The guest bedroom he's occupying is thankfully free of children and well-disguised hitmen, and for the first time since he's been here, he pushes the lock down behind him as he enters.

Then he calls Mammon. They pick up after only two seconds.

 _"I can't talk to you right now,"_ they say curtly.

"What the fuck is going on!" Hyacinthe whispers furiously. " _Mammon_! What the shit is happening? _What are you doing_?"

_"Isn't it obvious, books-for-brain? We're leading a coup."_

Hyacinthe knows that. He's known since Squalo's name escaped Reborn's lips. And he's seen Xanxus around, however distantly. No one who meets the man could ignore the depth of his bitterness, anger, ambition.

Hyacinthe knows that Xanxus is rumored to have already tried a coup, once, eight years ago. He's never been able to access those files in the Archives. They bear the Ninth's seal, just like Reborn's does.

He swallows. "Is that what you meant when you said you'd be busy for a few months?" he asks.

Mammon is so quiet for a moment that Hyacinthe thinks they might have hung up on him, but they do reply, very softly. _"You remember the weirdest things."_

"You haven't talked to me in ages," Hyacinthe says. He rubs a hand over his face and feels the cold stickiness of old sweat on his forehead. He feels disgusting. The day's rain has made the atmosphere heavy, almost unbreathable. "I was worried. And tonight when I got back, I got told that Squalo tried to _kill_ the kid whose house I'm staying at, and that apparently, the entire Varia is out for our skins."

 _"Squalo is an idiot,"_ Mammon says, switching to Italian. _Who the fuck are you talking about?_ comes Squalo's voice in the background, and Hyacinthe can't help but smile, however little he wants to. _"Belphegor, too. No one's supposed to make contact with Sawada Tsunayoshi and his allies until Xanxus tells us to."_

"Oh well, then I'm fucking relieved."

Hyacinthe's legs can't hold him up any longer. He crawls along the wall until he reaches the bed and lets himself fall on it. The thing creaks menacingly under his weight.

 _"Xanxus isn't going to kill you,"_ Mammon offers to the silence. _"He doesn't even know you're here. Just go back home and keep your head down once he's Tenth. He knows I know you, he won't harm you if you don't do anything stupid."_

Hyacinthe's heart is still beating too fast in his chest. His throat feels sore with the inexplicable urge to cry, and it's only because he wipes the wetness out of his eyes first that he doesn't sob outright. "You know I'm not gonna do that. I can't—they're kids. They're just _kids_. They're not even in high school." And he's nominated one of them to die.

He can't leave, now. Not just for the archive Reborn stole.

Mammon makes a disinterested noise. _"They shouldn't have stood up in Xanxus's way."_

"Your priorities are so screwed up."

 _"I'm an assassin. And you're the one who spent all of your last coworker's funeral bitching about his attitude, what the fuck are you talking about now?_ Morals _?"_

Hyacinthe laughs, eyes burning and mouth dry. "I think I'm going mad," he says.

There's a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then Mammon sighs, and says something to whoever's with him, and when they finally stop muffling the mic on their phone, all the distant noises on their side have ceased.

 _"What do you mean?"_ they ask.

"I had… a weird hallucination. I think. I can't even describe it, but I feel like I've just run a marathon. Physically."

_"You wouldn't run anywhere if your life depended on it."_

"Are you gonna listen to me or insult me?"

Mammon hums softly. _"Anything more you can tell me?"_

"Well." Hyacinthe pushes himself into a sitting position on the bed, his free hand coming up around his neck to touch the golden key. It's skin-warm under his fingers. "It looked like the key to the Archives was doing something. And I saw a bunch of cogs. The kind you find in old clocks."

A pause. _"That might not be a hallucination."_

"So you think it's an illusion?"

 _"I don't know,"_ they reply, irritated. _"It might be. This isn't enough information."_

Hyacinthe almost tells them about the voice, then; but there's age-old fear in him at the thought. There's the shame and the anxiety, rising from the depths of his body like a rogue wave, making him remember all the reasons why he doesn't talk about this sort of stuff. So instead, he says, voice hoarse: "I don't want to have to stand on one end of a battlefield with you on the other."

He wants to be back home at the manor, visiting Mammon twice a week and complaining about Lisa and the Mist Guardian, avoiding Belphegor's murderous presence, touching the top of Fantasma's rough head. Smelling the incense Mammon sometimes burns in their apartment suite when it rains.

Mammon doesn't say anything.

 

* * *

 

Mammon feels worse after calling Cen than they did before. It's an unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling. Cen has always been someone they feel better talking to than not.

The rest of their team is still sprawled around the hotel suite in the state of drunken haze that they left them in. Squalo is awake but barely—enough to scream, but not to move. Belphegor is playing a video game on the flat screen TV. Xanxus left for his room hours ago with a bottle of red in hand and hasn't come out since.

There's still a bit of blood and wine on the table, from when he broke the Romanée-Conti against Squalo's temple earlier.

Mammon makes their way toward where Levi is sitting, dozing in and out of sleep, head hunched forward. They kick into the foot of his armchair and say, "Wake up."

Levi does, of course. He's on his feet and grasping one of his ridiculous umbrellas with rage painted onto his features. He only relaxes when he sees who woke him up, but if the umbrella drops to the floor, his face remains the same unattractive shade of crimson. " _What_?" he barks.

"Do you know anything about the key to Vongola's Archives?"

Levi looks pathetically drunk. It's enough to make Mammon's low but constant irritation flare up, and it's without much regret that they turn the floor into ice-cold water under Levi's feet, making the man yelp and jump in place.

"Stop it!" he pleads.

Mammon drops the illusion. "The key," they repeat evenly.

It doesn't take nearly as long this time for Levi to speak. "The key is one of the Family's oldest artifacts, alongside the rings. They were made by the same person. Why d'you wanna know?"

"The one who made the rings…" Mammon has to think for a moment before remembering the name. "Talbot?"

"Yes." Levi runs a liquor-sticky hand over his dumb face, and Mammon can feel their lips quiver in disgust at the sight. "They say the first Archivist of Vongola was appointed by Secondo. He wanted to make sure no one could ever forget about the Family's deeds and glory."

Mammon squints. "That's it?"

"Of course not," Levi scoffs, well and truly offended. "How do you people not know _anything_ about our Family? The key holds power, just like the rings. Stories go so far as to claim Secondo made a deal with Destiny itself to obtain them. Archivists up till the Sixth Boss were rumored to be able to use those powers, but then the last one got killed before being able to teach anyone else how, and since then the key's just been used to open and close the Archives and symbolize the prestige of the job. The Archivist doesn't even sit at the council anymore."

"Powers," Mammon says softly. They're thankful for the hood they're wearing. It does an admirable job of masking the growing horror on their face.

Levi groans, reeking of booze and sweat. "No one knows what kind, exactly." He squints in Mammon's direction. "Why do you care? Are you planning on getting your hands on them? I thought the current Archivist was your friend."

Mammon puts a hand against Levi's forehead—thinking, with no small amount of bitterness, that it's a good thing Levi is too drunk to stand straight, because they wouldn't be able to reach him if he was—and they say: "Sleep."

Levi drops down, missing the chair by about a foot and hitting his head loudly on the wooden floor. On the couch, Squalo moves with a spasm, half-unconscious but sword raised to stab anyway.

"VOI," he slurs, loud enough to make Mammon's eardrums ache. "WHAT'S THE NOISE FOR, SHITHEAD?"

"Levi tried to headbutt the floor," Bel snickers in front of the TV. "The floor won."

"HE CAN DO THAT IN FUCKING SILENCE," Squalo roars. Then he lets his head fall back onto the couch's armrest and emits the loudest snore that Mammon's ever heard.

At least Levi looks out cold. He's unlikely to remember the conversation as well. For once, Mammon thinks, it's a good thing that the man devotes an almost religious zeal to the Family name.

They think about Cen next, and bite the dry skin off their lip until they can taste metal on their tongue.

Cen better not have unburied centuries-old Vongola powers by fucking accident.

 

* * *

 

Hyacinthe doesn't get the privilege of sleeping in the next day. He's woken up at sunrise by Lambo's wailing and I-Pin's shrill voice. The house already smells like breakfast, alcohol gone from the air despite the headache Hyacinthe has that feels like a hangover.

"Sweet Jesus," he groans under the blanket, not bothering with English or Italian.

Today feels like his own mother tongue. Deadpan and filthy.

He drags his aching legs to the bathroom before it can be invaded by Bianchi's morning routine. The shower he takes is quick and to the point, leaving him with his hair slightly curled and—too long for comfort, he notices in front of the mirror. That might explain why everyone's been confused about his gender.

He flattens the black locks back as far as they'll go and leaves the bathroom in nothing but his towel, ignoring Gokudera in the hallway who blushes an ugly red at the sight of him, all the way to the roots of his hair.

He throws on jeans and a hoodie once he reaches his bedroom, and he's out.

Reborn catches him before he can step out of the front yard. His fingers dig into Hyacinthe's damp hair like claws, dragging him back with only the strength of his wrist.

"No," Hyacinthe says.

"Today you're with me," Reborn replies, uncaring. He's dressed like a fireman, and he looks divine.

Hyacinthe tries to pull the man's fingers off his cranium, to no avail. "I need to buy cigarettes, _darling_ , or you'll have to deal with twice my temper."

"You chose to stay here." Leon is crawling up Reborn's neck, lifting the brim of Reborn's fireman-themed fedora with one leg and burrowing into the mess of black hair under it. "That means I get to do whatever I want with you now."

"It better be as dirty as it sounds."

Reborn uses his free hand to flip through what looks like a planner. He takes a folded piece of yellowed paper out of it, and unrolls the illustration of a giant fish monster with very pointy teeth, surrounded by familiar handwriting.

Hyacinthe's face goes crimson. "Fine," he spits out. "Fuck you. Jesus Christ, stop keeping them like this, you're going to wipe off the goddamn ink."

"That won't happen," Reborn replies pleasantly. His hand finally lets go of Hyacinthe's scalp, and Hyacinthe's headache is all the more painful for it. He would moan, if he didn't have one last shred of dignity to hang on to. "Let's get coffee."

The words are enough of a shock that Hyacinthe doesn't immediately react to them. Reborn takes the opportunity to walk ahead, the fingers of his right hand keeping the brim of his hat down so as to shroud half of his gorgeous face in shadow.

"Are you taking me on a _date_?" he says, at last.

"A gentleman could never promise himself to only one," Reborn answer suavely. "Come now, Hyacinthe Faure."

"Never managed to with just pet talk. You might wanna try a more hands-on approach."

Reborn walks, and doesn't bother replying.

There's nothing relaxing about taking a stroll alongside this man. Hyacinthe sticks the very last cigarette he owns between his lips and lights it as best as he can despite the cold wind, but even that isn't enough to settle him down. If anything his stomach turns a bit queasy, because he hasn't eaten yet, and the smoke makes him feel light-headed. Pain beats at his temple in pace with his heartbeat.

They stop in front of a convenience store so Hyacinthe can buy a few more boxes of cigarettes, but it's all they do before Reborn leads him to the seemingly biggest coffee shop in town. They don't even make small talk. It's a work day, too; workers and students alike walk in to get their caffeine fix, forming a line that goes on outside, silent and restless.

"There," Reborn says, materializing next to him with two boiling hot cups of espresso in his hands.

"Thank—"

Reborn gulps one cup down and sits at a table, already sipping on the second.

Hyacinthe takes a long, slow breath. "Charmer," he comments, taking the opposite seat.

"I know. I get that a lot."

They're silent for a while longer, Hyacinthe watching Reborn, Reborn watching his coffee, Leon watching Hyacinthe. The murmur of conversations around them is surprisingly tame considering the number of people going in and out. The shouts of welcome that the staff address to newcomers is the loudest sound he can hear. Even the cars running outside have been washed out.

And then Reborn lifts a hand, taking the fedora off his head. His hair jumps out, standing straight and messy and incredibly thick. "You saw something last night," he declares.

Hyacinthe's heart makes an awkward little jump, and his guts clench in sudden fear—except he hasn't eaten anything since yesterday at lunch with Ylva, so all that happens is his stomach letting out a long and sonorous groan.

His face is burning. "I didn't," he replies between his teeth.

"Yes you did," Reborn says evenly. "You woke up the Key."

Hyacinthe's hand almost flies up to grab the trinket hanging from his neck. "Whatever hallucinations I may or may not have are none of your business."

"They are if they're not hallucinations." Reborn's face is only showing a formal sort of interest, but his eyes are glowing like a child's. "I've had my doubts ever since I saw you. You feel off. Pathetically weak, but _off_."

"Oh, where should I start?" Hyacinthe says dryly. "Do you want a detailed account of how my transition is going, or should we jump straight to the juicy childhood trauma bits?"

It's a good thing that Reborn doesn't give a shit. All the man does is wave a delicate hand, nostrils flaring ever-so-slightly. "I don't care about that. What I meant is that you're not Vongola material at all, and yet, you are. You were meant to be. The fact that Timoteo carefully hid you from me is proof of that as well."

"I'm not." Hyacinthe can feel himself going cold and angry, all attraction gone and replaced with bitter resentment. "I'm not _meant_ for anything. I'm a civilian. I got picked up by Nono's Mist by pure luck."

"There's no such thing as _luck_ for those who contract with Destiny," Reborn purrs.

Hyacinthe wishes he had something in hand to crush or throw. "Stop being fucking cryptic," he hisses. "If you've got something to say, just _say it_."

"Fine," Reborn answers. He downs the rest of his coffee, mindless of the heat. "Almost four centuries ago, Vongola's Second Boss did something truly unbelievable. He got his hands on the power to change fate, locked it inside a key, and gave it to his closest advisor and friend. Vongola's first Archivist, a woman named Zita."

Hyacinthe's mouth goes dry.

"It's impossible to prove what she changed with it, of course," Reborn continues. "Only she knows that. No record of her or any following bearer of the Key show insight on how harnessing fate works exactly. But Vongola in that time grew exponentially, gaining unexpected allies out of its worst enemies, winning turf war after turf war, and, obviously, gathering riches beyond measure."

"This makes no sense."

Reborn's smile is as terrifying as it is handsome. "Of course it makes sense. We're mafia."

"Yes," Hyacinthe says. "Mafia. Not _magic_."

"What do you think Flames are?"

"I try not to think about them, really."

Reborn huffs. "Your denial isn't attractive in the least either."

" _Why 'either'_?"

"The important thing is that this kept going, even after Zita died. The Third Boss lived through three different Archivists, all of whom likely had this power as well. Traces of feats that can only be attributed to a literal _turn of fate_ can be found up till the fourth Archivist of Sesto's time. Those turns of fate became fewer and less important over time, though. When Sesto's man died, the Key went dormant, and none of the Archivists who followed have been able to use it properly." Reborn tilts his head sideways, lips still stretched ominously. "Until yesterday."

'Destiny' had been the word Hyacinthe thought of when the cogs appeared. Instantly, instinctively. He swallows despite the dryness in his mouth and how thick and still his tongue feels. "You said it yourself," he tries. "You have no proof."

"No one does," Reborn confirms. "Whatever you saw, you were the only one to."

Hyacinthe wants to lie, to say, _I didn't see anything_. He's a pretty good liar when push comes to shove. Comes with a lifetime of putting things off and burying them as deep as he can—until they come back to blow up in his face.

If this is some ancient Vongola power, he doesn't really want it blowing up in his face.

"So what if I saw something," Hyacinthe says, tight-lipped. "I might just be getting crazier."

"You said it yourself," Reborn replies lowly, in a much more elegant imitation of Hyacinthe's own words. "You're on the road to recovery, which I respect. You're not getting crazier."

It's a bit heart-wrenching, to hear that come out of Reborn's mouth. Makes Hyacinthe's eyes dampen. "You are so full of shit," he says tearfully.

Reborn nods, spinning the fireman-fedora on the tip of his index.

"I don't feel like telling you what I saw, sugar," Hyacinthe continues. It's hard to swallow back the burn in his eyes, but he manages. "You'll just have to guess."

"That is fine. I already know that you used it."

"How?"

The spinning hat stops, and Leon runs down Reborn's shoulder and arm, landing softly on the table. A waitress is looking at him with wide eyes but not doing anything to approach them.

"I did plan to make that weakling Tsuna's Lightning Guardian," Reborn says. "But after you told me to pick Haru instead… I found myself completely unable to disagree. In fact, I can't think of anyone else more suited than her for the job."

"You were _really_ going to send Lambo out there?"

"He's just a child now, but he's got some interesting abilities that he'll eventually grow into," he replies. "Oh, well. It doesn't matter. Lambo is still Tsuna's ally, Guardian or not. Haru might not be a bad choice in the end." His eyes flicker up to meet Hyacinthe's once more. "Not a bad first turn of fate, Hyacinthe Faure."

Hyacinthe is feeling more nauseous by the second. "I don't want to change fate at all. I've watched enough science-fiction to know that it's a bad idea."

"Is it?" Reborn waves at the waitress from earlier, and she comes by their table with a coffee pot in hand, ready to refill his cups. "Everyone makes choices. Definitive choices, even. The only difference is that yours can alter the course of events a bit more strongly."

" _Destiny_ doesn't even exist," Hyacinthe retorts. "Or at least not for me. I'm not religious, I'm not… I didn't grow up in a culture or with a mindset that taught me to believe anything is set in stone. At most I'm partial to the multiverse theory."

"Let's go with that, then." Reborn shoves both his cups forward gently, batting away Hyacinthe's hand when he tries to take hold of one. "This is our timeline," he says, pointing to one cup. "Let's imagine that a drop of coffee is falling, ready to hit the surface. You use the Key, and suddenly that drop of coffee falls into a different cup entirely." He hits a nail against the handle of the other cup. "A different timeline."

"I jumped into a different timeline?" Hyacinthe says, eyeing the cups with envy.

"No," Reborn replies. "You made _something_ jump into a different timeline. In this case, myself."

Reborn hadn't been the only one to turn gold. Sawada had, and Hyacinthe himself as well. But Hyacinthe isn't sure that he should mention it at all.

"You might be mixing up different universes," Reborn continues, face alight with curiosity. "Teleporting elements of one to another, back and forth. Opening entire new worlds with your own strength alone. Or," and his voice turns gleeful, "it might just be that we are, indeed, following a path set in stone, which only you are able to alter."

"Just—give me the damn coffee," Hyacinthe mumbles, head bursting with pain. Reborn is gracious enough to let him grab a cup and down half of it in one go. "Fuck. I don't want to have to think that much about every damn thing I decide on."

"I'm sure you'll be able to differentiate regular everyday choices from turns of fate," Reborn says. "The interesting part is what _else_ the Key can do."

Hyacinthe's heart drops somewhere around his stomach. "Isn't this _enough_?"

"It's _too much_. This sort of power would turn you into a god. There must be limitations… people you can't affect, things you can't change. There must be a _goal_. It's very likely that you can only ever use it to serve Vongola's interests, and that it must give you access to other things that I couldn't find out from rumor alone." Reborn extends a hand, too fast for Hyacinthe to counter, and tugs the key out of Hyacinthe's collar, brushing lightly against his collarbone. Hyacinthe has to lean forward to accommodate him, face red and furious. "It might be interesting to have you develop your Flame more, since you have one."

"Stop touching it," Hyacinthe barks, pulling the key out of Reborn's fingers and shoving it back under his hoodie. "And my Flame sucks. It's not even useful when I forget my lighter at home, since I pretty much collapse on the spot when I use it more than twice a day."

"Mmh. That can change with training."

"Over my _dead body_."

Reborn's eyes turn darker. "That could happen quicker than you think," he says lowly. "Especially if you can't defend yourself against Xanxus."

Hyacinthe sobers up. He's still trying to make sense of where he stands, and, mostly, where Mammon stands.

Reborn isn't privy to _these_ musings, however. His relationship with Mammon is no one's business but his, no matter how disapproving everyone has been of it since it started.

Reborn chooses this moment to stand up abruptly, dropping a few bills on the table and planting his hat back onto his atrocious hair. "Now we leave," he declares. "I have schemes to scheme and _you_ —" he points to Hyacinthe "—have a twelve hour intensive Japanese course booked with Ylva Byquist."

And maybe moving is a bit much to ask of him, still, but Hyacinthe gives Reborn the finger anyway. With every bit of its literal meaning in heart.

 

* * *

 

It becomes incredibly clear as the day progresses that Mammon has to meet Hyacinthe face-to-face to talk.

When Xanxus emerges from his room, dressed for battle and wearing his half of the Sky Vongola Ring, they realize that it's already too late.

"Let's fucking go," Xanxus says.

Squalo is on his feet immediately, roaring and laughing. Bel drops the food he's been binging on for the better part of the last hour, Lussuria lets out a frightful laugh, and Levi has been ready all day anyway.

Gola Mosca is silent. Slowly sucking the life out of the Ninth boss. It's probably the scariest thing out of them all.

Mammon makes their way after the rest of the group without a word. When Xanxus tells them to, they sneeze out a location and names, and that's all the incentive they all need to make their way there and scare the shit out of a bunch of kids.

Mammon would hope that Cen isn't there when they come, but the paper had his name on it, too, right next to Reborn's. Alongside all their enemies.

They hid it from view, but Xanxus will find out either way.

Namimori at night is as utterly boring as it is during the day. The city doesn't have a red lights district or even any sort of nighttime entertainment, except for a few cinemas here and there. As they jump over rooftops all they can hear is the murmur of cars and open restaurants. All they feel is a light breeze and the smell of trees.

Sawada Tsunayoshi's house looks exactly the same as the ones surrounding it. Mammon keeps watch over it and tries without much hope to guess which room Cen is staying in—maybe, they think, there's still a way to communicate to them that they shouldn't come outside.

Their fingers drop into the deep pocket of their cloak, disrupting Fantasma's sleep, until they brush the case of their phone.

The entrance door _blasts_ open, its smoking debris landing all over the tidy front yard, and out comes a tiny child with bad hair and a slightly less tiny child with worse hair.

Sawada is easy to recognize only because Levi has been _diligent_ about making all of them memorize the boy's face and daily routine. Mammon watches him flail around with mostly disgust and annoyance. The other kids who come after him look no stronger. Perhaps even more obnoxious.

"This one is the Prince's," Belphegor giggles. He's looking at a boy with silver hair. "Smoking idiot."

" _Shut up_ ," Levi says, louder than necessary. "We're waiting for the Arcobaleno to come out."

"Look, Levi, I found the Lightning half-ring! Yours is a _girl_."

Mammon stops listening to anything the others are saying. They don't care about battle, they don't even care about the coup, really. They're waiting for Reborn to make his appearance and for Cen to follow.

They don't know what they'll do when it happens. Possibly combust on the spot.

But then—"Who's that?" This is Xanxus's voice, and it doesn't sound happy.

There's another man standing in the entrance. It doesn't matter that Mammon can't immediately understand what they're seeing, because their face grows blood-warm and their spine shoots with adrenaline, and what comes out of their mouth is, "Oh _fuck_ no."

 _Fon_ is there, his stupid monkey hanging from one wrist and the other holding the remnants of the door open. Mammon can feel their nose fill with the scent of deep incense and wild grass despite the distance. It's getting hard to breathe and harder to stand still. The urge to turn heels and run has never been stronger than it is in this instant, and Fon, of course, chooses this precise moment to turn his head and look right at where they are hiding.

Mammon crouches lower behind the chimney exit they're using as an anchor for their illusions.

"Is this—is this _another fucking Arcobaleno_?" Squalo fake-whispers.

"Fon, right? His name didn't show up in Mammon's location," Lussuria croons. "Must mean he isn't an enemy."

 _He's still trouble_ , Mammon thinks faintly. Then they stop thinking, because Colonello is coming out too.

"This is a _reunion_ ," Squalo laughs, excited. "Mammon, look, all your old pals are here."

"If Verde is next I am _leaving_ ," Mammon says between their teeth.

Verde thankfully isn't next, but Reborn doesn't make for much of a reassurance. Cen is trailing behind him, looking about the same as he did when he left. Irritation marring his pretty face and flowers all over his clothes. The sight of him only makes Mammon's stomach turn, and they can't help but glance quickly in Xanxus's direction.

Xanxus isn't looking at the house anymore, though. His greedy eyes are fixed onto Sawada.

"I'll show them," he growls. "I'll show them _death_."

He meets Mammon's eyes with an order on his lips, and Mammon closes theirs tightly, dropping the illusions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot for this fic now extends to the future arc and I hate my own greed and lack of limitations.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: accidental misgendering.

**Venture Out Of Boredom  
** **Chapter 5**

There is something about watching a group of very powerful people emerge from the shadows like they're posing for a photoshoot of doom that makes one's problems feel very, very insignificant. Hyacinthe feels crushing fear for all of thirty seconds before his brain gives up on trying to feed him such intense levels of emotion and settles on  _blank, with side bad_.

Still, Varia makes for a sight, lined up on the roof opposite them. Hyacinthe has perhaps not appreciated this enough in the years he's been slithering in and out of their house in Italy. He doesn't think he's ever seen all of them in one place at the same time—Mammon's told him that's when disasters happen—and what he's seen of them, he's seen lounging around in pajamas or coming back home covered in blood, drunk, or tired. Sometimes all three at once. And who's the giant robot anyway?

 _Ah, there's Mammon_ , Hyacinthe thinks, eyeing them tiredly.

Mammon seems to be sticking their entire back against the stone chimney behind them. It's a good thing Reborn is here to kick Hyacinthe in the heel when he tries to wave at them in his state of non-emotion and remind him that, oh,  _right_. They're all about to die.

This isn't how he was planning on spending the evening. Not that he had anything more in mind than chain-smoking his way through the frustration of his last conversation with Mammon, but still. Mass murder seems rude.

"Calm down," Reborn says lowly. "I told you. Xanxus will want to make a spectacle out of it."

Indeed, Xanxus starts yelling at the poor, shrunken silhouette of Tsuna at the front. Duel-this ring-that. Two girls with pink hair and brown skin appear by his sides halfway through, give orders that have nothing to do with Hyacinthe at all and which Hyacinthe decides he's not going to think about again. He's too busy trying to catch Mammon's eyes and communicate to them, somehow, the need to  _talk_.

Maybe he should just risk taking out his phone and texting them outright.

He can't, though, because Reborn's playing with it lazily, twirling it between his fingers. Like he can actually read thoughts and predict the future.

The power to play with fate should've gone to him, Hyacinthe thinks in what he recognizes is the beginning of hysteria.

Watching Tsuna break down in terror and his friends— _kids_ —surround him to protect and fight is heartbreaking. Hyacinthe snaps his fingers behind his back and feels fire flicker between them, artificial relaxation spreads through his shoulders and neck and almost makes him pass out. He stops caring about everything after that. Reborn gives him a thoughtful glance before looking ahead again.

"Can't we do anything to stop them?" This is Fon's voice. Hyacinthe forgot he was standing on his other side. When he looks at him, Fon is glancing up toward the roof—watching Mammon. "We could try talking to Viper."

"No," Reborn answers quietly. "Viper is Vongola. You're not. This is a Vongola issue, no one but the Guardian candidates are allowed to interfere."

"Who's Viper?" Hyacinthe asks.

The way Reborn smiles at him is frightening. "Oh, I apologize," he murmurs insincerely. "You know him as Mammon, I think."

 _What_ , Hyacinthe doesn't say.

"Mammon," Fon repeats, pensive.

They both look like they're sharing a secret, and Hyacinthe feels a little irritated at that in spite of everything. "I don't give a damn about Guardians," he declares. " _I'm_  talking to Mammon when this shitshow's over."

It makes Fon glance at him in surprise, but Reborn chuckles before the other can say anything.

"My intelligence did say that you two are close," he comments.

Fon looks as close to frozen in place as he can be. " _Close?_ "

"Yes, we are," and Hyacinthe feels a rush of misplaced pride as he says it, because the look Fon gives him is a deeply offended one. He has no idea what's happening, but he's a bit tired of Reborn and his pals looking like they're understanding things he doesn't, especially when it involves the only person here he gives a damn about. "So I'm talking to them. I'm not scared of Xanxus."

Xanxus chooses this moment to make the ground in front of Tsuna's feet explode in a rush of heat and Flame.

"So maybe I am a little scared of Xanxus," Hyacinthe admits, heart racing in his throat.

The shitshow in question seems to be coming to an end, at least. Xanxus gives a parting spat in Japanese that Hyacinthe doesn't try to decipher, and then turns around, coat billowing behind him as if caught by inexistent wind. He jumps off the other side of the roof—or disappears, or  _teleports_  for all Hyacinthe knows—and the others start going after him.

Hyacinthe takes a deep breath and bellows, "Don't you even think about it, Mammon!"

Mammon stills in their step. They're half-turned away, and  _their_  coat isn't billowing despite how dramatic they like to appear, which is worrying in its own right. Their eyes finally meet Hyacinthe's.

"Fuck," they say.

"Damn right," Hyacinthe replies. "We need to talk."

"Are you stupid?" Mammon's voice drawls. They gesture to the pathetic display they all make, with the kids half-terrified to death and the adults just standing behind because apparently  _there's nothing to be done_. Everyone's looking between them and Hyacinthe now. "I'm here to kill all of you."

"Don't be so morbid."

"What exactly did you not get about  _battle to the death_?"

Mammon bickers as they always do, but they look tense. They don't like being the center of attention, and if Hyacinthe is aware of the looks Reborn and Fon are giving him, then Mammon must be excruciatingly conscious of Belphegor and Squalo by their side, who seem greatly amused by the situation.

"It's the Archivist," Bel laughs sweetly. "Mammon's stupid friend."

"Why the hell are  _you_  here?" Squalo screams in Hyacinthe's direction.

"Did you only just notice him?"

" _I'll kill you_."

"See," Mammon says in a dead voice while Bel and Squalo explode into an argument behind them. "Can't talk. We're enemies."

Hyacinthe crosses his arms across his chest and stares. Mammon fidgets. Hyacinthe stares harder.

"Stop looking at me like that," they mutter eventually.

"Are you going to stop acting like a baby?" Hyacinthe replies.

"Oh,  _fuck_  you, Cen."

They do come down, though, floating gracefully to the ground and making Tsuna yelp and crawl backward in fear. Gokudera and Yamamoto have their arms raised around him, and Haru stands at the back with a pale face and trembling hands. Sawada (father) looks at them in virulent hatred as they walk past, which Mammon gives back tenfold even with cloth covering half their face.

" _Viper_ ," Colonello laughs in delight. "It's been a long time, man."

Mammon levels a stare with the man's raised arm that says  _touch me and die_  more clearly than words would. Colonello drops it slowly.

"I'm not talking to you in front of these buffoons," they tell Hyacinthe once they're within touching distance. They look even tenser now, and their body has shifted toward Hyacinthe and Reborn and away from Fon.

"No can do," Reborn says. He's taken out his gun and has started polishing it in a way that makes Hyacinthe wish he were polishing something else instead. "Hyacinthe Faure is suspicious enough as it is. Fraternizing with the enemy and all. You'll need to be chaperoned."

" _Chaperoned_ ," Mammon mutters.

"Only if you join in," Hyacinthe replies.

Mammon gags.

Reborn slides a slow smile in Hyacinthe's direction. "Not me. I was thinking Fon could do it. He's a neutral party, after all."

The silence that follows is crushing.

And, yeah, Hyacinthe  _is_  a bit stupid, socially speaking. He's fine being referred to as Mammon's stupid friend. He doesn't care about anyone here enough to feel offended. But he's not that stupid that he wouldn't notice the breath Mammon draws in or the amused tilt of Fon's lips as he glances toward them—or remember what Colonello said about  _Viper_  and him with teasing suggestion on his voice, or the way Fon talked about illusionists with want-laced admiration.

Great. Just great.

"Fine," he says, because Mammon and Fon are obviously not going to. "We're off, then."

Squalo smirks when they walk away, shoves a friendly, "Don't kill them early, Mammon," that makes Mammon's teeth clench further and Hyacinthe's stomach churn. Then he and Bel disappear, too.

Hyacinthe has, quite frankly, no idea what he's doing.

His feet take him on the path toward the nearest convenience store because it's where he always goes to buy his cigarettes, and he figures it's as good a place as any to try and have one goddamn talk with his best friend. Even if they have to be watched by someone who obviously has some sort of a crush on them. At least Mammon walks by him right off the bat, falling in stride with him and brushing close enough that when Fantasma's head peeks out of their sleeve, the first thing he does is climb up Hyacinthe's arm. Fon walks behind them without saying a word.

"You should've gone back," Mammon mutters once they reach the store. Their nostrils flare when Hyacinthe takes the chance to buy more cigarettes and sticks one between his lips immediately. They lift an arm, inviting Fantasma back to them so he doesn't have to breathe in the smoke.

Hyacinthe takes his time to answer. He leans against the store, regrets for a moment not taking warmer clothes with him and then decides that he doesn't care. "You should've found a way to avoid this mess," he replies. "Or at least warned me, asshole. You knew I was coming here."

"I didn't know you would stay."

"What can I say?" Hyacinthe takes a long drag and exhales it with his next words, smiling like a man heading for his death. "Reborn compelled me."

"Your tastes suck so much."

"Like you can talk."

Hyacinthe flicks a joking glance toward where Fon stands, some feet away from them, and he expects Mammon to huff, or smack him across the head lightly, but instead Mammon's face turns entirely crimson.

Hyacinthe lowers the cigarette. "Mammon?" he asks carefully.

Mammon's hand comes up to rub their face, and they whisper, "Please stop talking."

"Oh my  _God_." Hyacinthe points at Fon. " _This_ guy? _Really_?"

Fon looks entirely too amused with the outburst, and he folds his arms across his chest with a smile. His eyes are on Mammon when he declares, "If it's any reassurance, it was only the once."

Hyacinthe splutters.

Mammon turns their back to them both, shoulders shaking in embarrassment or anger, Hyacinthe's not sure, and their voice is filled with venom when they ask, "Why are you even  _here_?"

"Who, me?" Fon takes a step toward them. The fact that Mammon addressed a word to him at all seems to have loosened what little restraint he knows. "I just wanted to see how you were doing since the curse broke,  _Mammon_."

"You slept with this guy," Hyacinthe says in a faint voice. He feels like he's been doused in cold water.

"Oh, yes," Fon answers, eyes flashing. "And what a night it was—"

He steps aside in that same fluid way Hyacinthe's always seen him move, right in time to avoid the  _pit of lava_  that has appeared where he stood.

"So help me, Fon," Mammon says in a terrifying whisper, "if you came here just to fuck with me…"

They fall silent once their eyes meet Fon's. Hyacinthe feels extremely out of place.

"We're not here to fix your past mistakes," he decides out loud. Mammon snorts, and they turn away from Fon to look at him instead. "No matter how big they are."

"Your opinion is unneeded," Fon tells him.

"His opinion is worth more than that price on your head," Mammon tells Fon. "Was it dead or alive? I forgot." Their hands crackle with electricity.

Fon, somewhat reasonably, falls silent.

"Glad we cleared that up," Hyacinthe says. It's a little rude to laugh in the face of a rejected guy, but it's also rude to gloat about sleeping with someone, so Hyacinthe settles for giving Fon a very brief, satisfied smile. "Now let's focus on how not to get those kids murdered."

"Impossible."

"You're not being very bright and positive today, Mammon."

Mammon doesn't smile. Their voice is as monotonous and serious as it always is when discussing business. "Xanxus will have all of their heads. The only way to stop him would be for the kids to be stronger than us, which…" He doesn't bother ending that thought.

"Okay," Hyacinthe lets out. He flicks the ashes off his cigarette and takes another drag. It calms nothing in him, not even the most superfluous of nerves, just burns going down his throat. "Can you try to convince him?"

"Why would I?" Mammon asks.

It is no coincidence that their hood rises from some wind Hyacinthe doesn't feel, and that their green eyes pour contempt and pity in Hyacinthe's direction. Hyacinthe clenches the fist he has in his pocket and wills himself not to get angry.

"They're children," he says. "They're just… kids. They didn't ask for this."

"Would you feel better if they were adults?"

Mammon is trying to destabilize him, he knows, but Hyacinthe isn't a moral enough person for that to affect him. " _Yes_. I would." When Mammon doesn't reply, he exhales harshly and runs a hand through his hair. "Look, I know you don't care, and I don't usually care that you don't care—I don't… I know how you are." He knows enough of what Mammon's done in their life not to be surprised that they'd kill children in cold blood. "Just, find an excuse. I don't know. Tell Xanxus you'll enslave them as retribution or something."

"You talk as if I have power over him that the others don't."

"Because you  _do_. You've been with him the longest, and he  _trusts_  you."

Mammon is silent for a long time. Fantasma coils himself around their neck like a weird, wiggling scarf, and his clever eyes meet Hyacinthe's from the hollow of Mammon's throat.

"He's going to kill you, you know," they say. "For being here. Standing with the enemy. He didn't say anything, but I know he recognized you."

"I knew that," Hyacinthe replies warily.

Mammon's lips thin before they speak again. "I don't think I can negotiate for more than one life, Cen."

It makes Hyacinthe's chest clench on understanding, but he still says, "Then negotiate for the kids."

He doesn't think he imagines the shudder that shakes them. The night  _is_  cold, too cold for any of them to be wearing so little, but there's a steady beat of energy running through Hyacinthe and keeping his body warm. He doesn't understand it until he sees cogs appear above Mammon's head.

The Key is fire-hot against his chest.

"Xanxus will not settle for anything less than Sawada Tsunayoshi's death," Mammon says, oblivious to the mechanics Hyacinthe has put at play, and Hyacinthe doesn't have time to say anything before they add, "I'll try talking to the others."

Hyacinthe holds his breath. The cogs don't move.

"Okay," he says, trying very hard not to hyperventilate. "That's good."

"What will you do if that doesn't work?" Mammon asks him.

A golden string appears between them and turns both of them gold. Links them heart-to-heart.

 _Fuck_ , Hyacinthe thinks.

For the first time, he wishes Reborn were here.

"I," he stutters. "I don't know. Something. I'll improvise."

Mammon clicks their tongue. "Just don't put your life on the line like an idiot."

And, God, this is it, isn't it. Pressure grows in Hyacinthe's body, the cogs turning before he can voice anything, and when he says, "I won't," he and Destiny both know he's lying. The gold disappears from his skin and Mammon's, the string vanishes, and Hyacinthe now knows with absolute certainty that he  _will_ , eventually, put his life on the line like an idiot.

Exhaustion crashes onto him so swiftly that it's a miracle he stays standing at all. He thanks the wall he's leaning on and the fact that it has rained earlier in the day. He can blame the way his feet slip on the pavement on that.

"Why would I do that?" he adds weakly. "You know I'm no hero."

"You're suicidal is what you are," Mammon huffs.

It's a lot truer than they know.

This fate business doesn't feel like anything Hyacinthe has control over. The knowledge sits tight in him, pulses like a wound in his belly, like crushed ribs and a twisted spine after a car crash. He swallows. Fon is looking at him intently.

"Okay," he says, as evenly as he can. "Then let's just… let's just leave it at that for now. We have a week, right? Maybe they'll be strong enough to beat you in a week."

"Fucking delusional," Mammon mutters. They do approach, though, and tap Hyacinthe's shoulder lightly with their fingers, mouth twisted into a smile.

Hyacinthe feels too tired to stand but he does it anyway, and the hug Mammon gives him feels like a shot of caffeine. His lips break into a chuckle as he squeezes their shoulders one-handed. He crushes the last of his cigarette with his free hand.

"I missed you," Hyacinthe says pathetically. His mouth is by Mammon's temple, against the cold fabric of their hood. It feels like coming home.

Mammon snorts. Their words come out muffled against Hyacinthe's shoulder. "Don't get your stupid face all beat up."

"You like my face."

"It's the least disagreeable part of you."

Hyacinthe punches them lightly in the back, and Mammon pushes themself off of him with a sneer. "I need to go back and convince my boss not to kill the people he's been plotting to kill for a year," they declare. "You get some rest. Don't sleep with Reborn or I'll kill you myself."

"You've lost  _any_  right you ever had to criticize my hook-ups." Hyacinthe smirks.

Mammon flushes again, sends a venomous glance where Fon is still standing, and vanishes.

Hyacinthe lets himself fall against the wall with a deep sigh. His knees are starting to shake and he knows he'll collapse in bed as soon as he gets home and probably not wake up for fifteen hours. He's supposed to take his next shot of T tomorrow, too.

"That was enlightening," Fon says slowly.

Hyacinthe looks at him sideways. Fon's expression is non-threatening but not very friendly either. "Sorry for laughing at you," he says, feeling not sorry at all. "I just really thought better of them, you know."

Fon doesn't rise up to the taunt. He steps toward Hyacinthe in a way that makes Hyacinthe's shoulders tense reflexively; he's barely standing, he doesn't know how to fight on a good day and certainly doesn't know how to defend himself with Flame-exhaustion crushing his energy to smithereens.

But all Fon does is look at him in askance for a moment before grabbing his arm and wrapping it over his own shoulder. He picks Hyacinthe off the wall with the same show of casual strength he demonstrated the day before.

Maybe Hyacinthe gets what Mammon saw in him. Maybe.

"You're really pathetically weak," Fon says.

 _Maybe not_ , Hyacinthe thinks, teeth clenched. "I don't need your fucking help."

He tries to take back his arm, but Fon's grip tightens like a vice. "I don't know what you did," he replies—Hyacinthe feels himself freeze, feels anxiety catch in his throat—"but you're gonna have to be tougher than this if you want to keep doing it."

"I didn't do anything."

Fon doesn't acknowledge him at all. He just keeps walking them back toward the house as he speaks. "It's the second time I see you crash like this. Whatever it is obviously takes a toll on you, and considering the state your body's in, you'll end up doing yourself serious damage."

It hurts to hear. It'll always hurt to hear. Hyacinthe knows he's big in a way people don't like, he knows he does nothing to change it and probably never will. He can't conform to any sort of standard of fitness or beauty even if he tried. It's one thing to see it in the looks people give him and another to hear it said so easily by a person he can't physically escape.

"Fuck you," he whispers.

Fon pauses for a second before answering. "My apologies," he says lowly—sincerely. "I meant the fact that you've suffered serious injuries in the past."

Hyacinthe looks at him. "What?"

"I'm not going to ask, if that's what you're worried about. It's just visible if you know what to look for." He tugs Hyacinthe's arm down harshly, and Hyacinthe's lower back flares with pain, making him groan. "See? That's what I'm talking about. Your posture is terrible, your back is already weakened, and yet you keep doing things that will only make it worse—"

"Okay, all right, I get it!" Fon releases the pressure, and Hyacinthe's breath comes out of him at once. "You are such an asshole," he complains.

Fon smiles, weirdly enough. "I'm just assessing you, Hyacinthe Faure. I'm curious what kind of man won over Viper— _Mammon's_  affection so easily."

This sounds wrong in so many ways, but Hyacinthe doesn't really know how to start untangling the reasons why. "Why don't you try not being a dick if you want them to like you so bad?" he asks tiredly.

"It seems to work for you."

"Jokingly. I'm  _jokingly_  a dick to them."

"Yes," Fon says. The house is in sight now, Colonello's pet eagle standing over the roof, its shadow the shape of a mythological monster of some kind. It caws loudly at the sight of them.

Fon's words sound like a challenge.

"I do wonder about you, Faure."

 

* * *

 

Hyacinthe gets about zero hours of sleep.

It's mostly because of Sawada (father), who jumps him the moment he sets foot into the living-room to interrogate him mafia-style, gun in hand and drunken swears slurring over his tongue. He does it all in Italian, which means that Nana watches them patiently from her side of the room thinking this is all just a game. Or a rehearsal for a play. Or something.

How does she not notice the gun is  _real_? Reborn isn't even here either, the useless bastard.

"No, I'm not  _conspiring with the enemy_ , I was  _chatting with a friend_ ," Hyacinthe says for the tenth time. He's running solely on the coffee Nana provided him and which Sawada allowed him. His hands are tied too tightly, the plastic burning painfully against his wrists. He knows the Mist Guardian taught him how to get out of those bonds, once, but he can't seem to remember the way.

Frankly, his head feels abuzz with exhaustion. He's been seeing bugs and shifting shadows since he used the Key earlier. He just wants to pass out.

"Are you sleeping with Mammon?" Sawada asks, serious as the dead.

"Are you sleeping with your wife or is she tired of you yet?" Hyacinthe snaps back.

It makes Sawada's face burn an ugly crimson but doesn't really better Hyacinthe's situation.

He just lets Sawada rage on for a while after that, mind caught on nonsensical things such as having the power to change fate, Mammon's warm and ever-so-rare embrace, and how Fon managed to guess that Hyacinthe has broken his back in the past.

It's past two in the morning when he finds his way back to his guest room, and by then he's jittery with the damn coffee, and all he does is turn around in the sheets, too tired to sleep at all.

He's understandably cranky when someone knocks on his door at seven o'clock.

"What?" he croaks, opening it.

Reborn stands in the hallway, looking deliciously disheveled in the sweatpants and loose T-shirt he's wearing. The collar is wide enough that Hyacinthe can see his collarbones and the tight muscles of his shoulders.

"I do appreciate a morning gâterie," he says. "If that's why you're here."

"You and Tsuna will be training with me," Reborn answers.

Hyacinthe closes the door on him.

It's useless, of course, because Reborn has somehow slipped into the room in the half-a-second Hyacinthe looked at the handle of the door. He takes a seat on the unmade bed and pats the mattress by his side indulgently.

"You're lucky you're so hot," Hyacinthe says, falling down next to him.

He's not surprised when Reborn opens the bedside table and pulls out the necessary items for the shot Hyacinthe is supposed to take today. Hyacinthe grunts in vague thanks.

He's so tired that he doesn't even feel weird about Reborn watching him take his testosterone. He doesn't feel anxious about stabbing himself with a needle either, which is good. The injection zone aches a bit once he's done, and he knows he'll have a bruise to show for it for a few days, but at least he didn't forget this time.

And if Reborn can get something out of the show that can eventually help Tsuna, well, it's just as well.

"Training?" Hyacinthe asks hopelessly once his pant leg has been rolled down to his ankle once more.

"I've taken the liberty of getting you appropriate clothes," Reborn answers mildly. "Be ready in twenty minutes."

"Ugh."

Hyacinthe gets another coffee, a ten-minute shower, and a few recommendations from Nana for the best barber in town, and then they're off.

To a  _fucking jungle_.

Hyacinthe feels both terrible and immensely relieved to learn that he doesn't, actually, have to cross the jungle himself. He and Reborn abandon Tsuna at the mouth of it to be devoured by man-eating tigers and such while they take a shortcut that drives them up a mountain instead. The décor is lunar, rock deserts whose only greenery comes in the shape of yellow and sweet-smelling flowers; it reminds Hyacinthe of a holiday trip he took to Belle-Île when he was young, except that it lacks fresh sea-wind and the bliss of flat pathways. That's the thing with mountain treks. You're either going up or down.

He's panting five minutes into climbing. Reborn makes no comment, but his disdain is rather clear. He hands Hyacinthe some water when they reach the top and lets him crash onto a spot of grass. There's a wide stream on one side of them and a sharp cliff on the other.

"I hate walking," Hyacinthe wheezes. "Useless piece of shit goddamn use of legs."

Reborn doesn't grace him with an answer.

They're joined about ten minutes later by a boy Hyacinthe recognizes as Sawada (father)'s apprentice, Basil, and Ylva Byquist, of all people.

"Why am I here," Ylva whimpers.

"There's no reason you can't both train body and mind," Reborn says. He's lying down next to Hyacinthe with his hat on his face as protection from the sun. There's a sportswear logo on the brim of the fedora, and Leon is sunbathing on top of it. "You'll continue your lessons with Hyacinthe Faure while he trains, Ylva Byquist."

Ylva just looks more terrified than before.

It takes another hour for Tsuna to join them. Basil has set up a proper  _camping site_  in the meantime, is now in the process of brewing coffee and cooking appetizing sausages atop a campfire, like this is just something he does every day as a child-soldier of the mafia.

Tsuna is drenched in sweat and obviously exhausted. He's bruised up, bleeding from his nose, and still bearing the fatigue of having fought the Varia days before.

"You should at least praise him or something," Hyacinthe tells Reborn once Reborn is done ordering the boy to, apparently, climb the cliff without climbing gear.

"Praise him yourself," Reborn replies.

Hyacinthe looks at Tsuna. Tsuna looks back in despair.

"You're… a good kid," Hyacinthe says.

Reborn translates, and Tsuna pales considerably.

"That's not what Mr Faure said at all!" Ylva shrieks.

It turns out that Tsuna is not as helpless as he looks. The same Flame that Hyacinthe observed on him a while ago sprouts proudly from his forehead, making him scream with all of his tiny lungs' capacity and shredding his clothes on the way. He starts climbing in a fury of yells and frail limbs right after.

Hyacinthe averts his eyes. "Can't you stop that?" he asks Reborn. "The clothes thing."

"Tsuna is on hormone blockers."

It doesn't really make it right. Hyacinthe knows a thing or two about dysphoria, though he didn't have the luck of hormone blockers himself. He doubts Tsuna is as comfortable with being bare-chested as Reborn thinks he is.

He's not here to teach Transgender 101, however. He made that clear early on.

Tsuna falls. Cries. When Reborn shoots him with the Dying Will bullet again, he falls asleep with the Flame burning over his head.

"This is so fucked up," Hyacinthe tells Ylva eagerly.

"Now," Reborn declares. He stands up—the way the track pants hug his ass is positively  _mouth-watering_ —and lands a dark, amused glance toward Hyacinthe. "On to you."

"I'm not training," Hyacinthe replies, though he's wearing the clothes Reborn gave him. There's a lovely little golden rose embroidered at each ankle.

"You need to if you wish to use your gift properly." Reborn switches to Italian, then, probably so Ylva doesn't understand. Basil is away on berry-collecting duty because Reborn told him Leon wants cake. "Fon informed me that you used it again last night."

"Fon is a dirty little snitch."

"Be that as it may," Reborn croons, "he had some interesting pointers to share. How did you like meeting him?"

"How did I—" Hyacinthe pauses, bewildered. "He's rude. Condescending. A  _prick_. Is that what you want to hear?"

"It's important to know your competition."

"My competition for  _what_?"

Reborn just looks at him the way he'd look at a dead rat on the side of the road.

"Whatever," Hyacinthe says, rolling his eyes. "I can't control that—that fate thing. So far it's controlled me every time."

"Explain."

"It's just…" Hyacinthe gestures with his hands vaguely. " _I'm_  not the one making the choices. It makes them for me every time. Like I'm just a vessel for it or something."

"It might just be a question of having enough physical power to fight for control," Reborn says slowly. "Which you can train. With me."

"I'm only interested in one kind of physical activity involving you."

"Walking up to this place and then back to Namimori every day will be enough cardio for now," Reborn continues, ignoring him. Hyacinthe scowls. "I'll set you up on different kinds of Flame exercises while you're here. Show me what you can do right now."

Hyacinthe sighs. He takes a cigarette from the box hidden in his back pocket, sticks it between his lips, and snaps his fingers in front of his chin. A blue flame licks up warmly between his thumb and index and catches the tobacco and paper on fire. The first drag of smoke is heavenly.

"A blue Flame," Reborn comments thoughtfully. "Like Basil. Interesting."

"Does it make a difference?" Hyacinthe asks drowsily. "Blue or orange? Or is it just fancy magic aesthetics?"

"You seem pretty relaxed."

Hyacinthe chuckles. "Yeah," he drawls, shifting to rest his weight on one hand behind himself, legs spread in front of him on the grass. "This shit is better than weed. It's too bad I pass out if I use it for more than a minute."

"Your physical shape is abysmal."

Hyacinthe flips him off.

Reborn spends another minute looking silently at Leon perched on his wrist, like they're having a conversation. He raises a hand to tug the sports-fedora's brim over his eyes.

"All right," he says, conversational. "Use it again, and keep it up for as long as you can."

"Didn't you hear me?" Hyacinthe mumbles around his next lungful of smoke. "I'll pass out."

"Then pass out."

He glares at Reborn. Reborn looks back impassively and takes a yellow page out of his sleeve that's painted over with the sketch of a ferocious-looking whale.

Hyacinthe channels the warm energy he's learned to associate with his Flame to the tip of his middle finger and raises it in Reborn's direction again, blazing a bright blue.

Reborn smiles slowly, satisfied. "Very good," he purrs, making heat gather low in Hyacinthe's belly and the fingers of his free hand clench in the grass. His sight is starting to waver already. "When you wake up, try to do the V sign version."

The last thing Hyacinthe hears is Ylva's worried call of his name.

 

* * *

 

For all that Mammon swears by Xanxus's brute strength and capacity for cruelty and violence, they're not really scared of the man.

Xanxus belongs to a time long gone. He's the sort of man Mammon would have met during their youth almost a century ago, the sort of man that still populated the underworld before communication and money took such a leap forward. He swears by blood bonds,  _literal_  blood bonds, ones made in the midst of fierce battle, much thicker than the water of the covenant. If he weren't so messed up by whatever childhood atrocities made him the way he is, Mammon is sure Xanxus would be one of the most loyal people alive.

Xanxus hasn't been the same since the Ninth raised a hand on him eight years ago. Squalo may not realize it—or, if he does, he's more subtle about it than Mammon has ever given him credit for—but it's easy enough for someone who deals in imagination and scheming to see the signs.

They're not scared of Xanxus hurting them physically. Xanxus hasn't hurt Mammon physically before, ever. It's not fear of death that keeps them still and silent even after being allowed entry into their boss's bedroom.

At least not fear for their own death.

"What d'you want?" Xanxus mutters.

The whole room smells like wine, as if every drop spilled on the floor has vaporized and is now rushing into Mammon's lungs through their nostrils. They have to resist the urge to cough.

"I was thinking, boss," they say. "About whether it's wise to kill those kids."

Xanxus frowns at them.

The fact that he doesn't erupt into rage is encouraging. Mammon has already mostly convinced Squalo that the baseball kid is better off alive than dead—Squalo has taken to the idea of keeping him as a training dummy so well, he's basically making plans to train the kid right now. Bel won't see reason until he spills blood, but Bel is the weakest of them, so Smoking Bomb Hayato-whatever stands an actual chance. Levi can be convinced by being told, repeatedly, about how absolutely fucking ridiculous it is for him to go full-out against a little girl. Lussuria…

Mammon prefers not to think about Lussuria too much.

"You already have a foolproof plan," Mammon continues softly. "The rings are yours. The duels are just for show."

"They need to be taught a fucking lesson," Xanxus replies.

"Of course. But wouldn't it be better to try and really drive the point home? Keep them alive. They'd make good hostages in case we face a resisting faction of the Family."

They can see their words work through Xanxus's mind. He's mellowed out by the wine and, no doubt, the head rush of having terrorized innocents.

"You can just ask me if you want me to keep your  _friend_  alive, Mammon," Xanxus says roughly. Mammon knows he can't see through the hood, but it doesn't stop them from shivering when meeting his red eyes. "That's what you're really here for, right?"

Mammon swallows. "I would like that, yes."

Xanxus snarls. It's what he does when confronted with things like friendship and loyalty. "Pathetic," he lets out, spit flying out of his mouth with the consonants, "you've become pathetic."

"I've never failed you."

"Doesn't mean you're not trash." Xanxus leans back into the pillows at his back and eyes him with contempt. "You're playing a dangerous game, Arcobaleno."

Mammon hates that word.

It drags in their ears like chalk on a blackboard, like nails on sandpaper, like metal rubbing on metal. Their teeth ache with it and their stomach fills with nausea from the strength of their disgust, and it's like being caught in the monstrous body of a child again. Like their limbs are stubs and their skin hurts when touched by air. Like waking up on that mountaintop all over again, naked, terrified, surrounded by the deformed cries of the six other strongest people in the world.

"I'm loyal only to you," they say between their teeth. "Not anyone else. Not even Vongola."

"Good," Xanxus replies, "because I'm only willing to give you one life. It's more than you deserve for that shit you're pulling." He hunches forward, one knee raised toward himself so he can put his arm on it. He's smiling. "It's either the brat or your friend. Make your choice."

It's no choice at all.

"Cen," Mammon answers. "Spare him."

Hyacinthe Faure is not someone Mammon is willing to part with. No matter what Hyacinthe himself has to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha... has it already been 3 months... I'm sorry... I hope you guys enjoyed this new chapter of Hyacinthe Faure's terrible misadventures. He certainly didn't.


End file.
